


Only an Echo

by mokuyoubi



Category: Hannibal (TV), The Giver Series - Lois Lowry
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Coming of Age, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Daughter Relationship, Illustrations, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mentor/Protégé, Minor Character Death, On the Run, Oral Sex, Slow Burn, Top Hannibal, Underage Sex, masquerading as utopia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 72,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8119768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Will lives a seemingly ideal if somewhat boring and colourless life in his community--a world where there is no pain, no hunger, no war. It isn’t until he turns sixteen and is assigned to become the new Receiver of Memories that he learns the cost of peace and contentment. As the previous Receiver, Hannibal, now gives his memories to Will, Will begins to understand that in gaining security, they have sacrificed things such as individuality, family, and love. And as the bond between Hannibal and Will grows, old secrets surrounding the tragic circumstances of the young girl who previously received memories from Hannibal begin to surface. When Hannibal discovers the truth behind Mischa’s disappearance, he and Will begin to develop a plan to seek revenge on those who have wronged him.Art in Chapter One by varali1618 and Chapter Four by granpappy-winchester -- please be sure to leave some awesome feedback for these talented, amazing artists, as well!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [只是回响](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14136078) by [holicZ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holicZ/pseuds/holicZ)



> This will be posted in 7 parts over the next week or so. I don't plan to go more than 2-3 days between parts, but it's a very long fic, so I thought breaking it up might help everyone get through!
> 
> WARNING: Aside from the graphic violence on par with what you might find in the show, including murder, there is some VERY FUCKED UP STUFF happening in the Community. If you've read the book "The Giver," by Lois Lowery, then you probably already have a good idea of what that might entail, and of course the book gives no warning for what's coming. It is not sexual, but if you're afraid it might trigger you, feel free to highlight for additional warning: infanticide.
> 
> Warning that Will is 16 and Hannibal around 28 when they begin a sexual relationship.

Today was the twentieth of December, and merely thinking of the upcoming Ceremony of Sixteen made Will's stomach churn with anxiety and something else. For a time, Will struggled with how to properly convey the emotion. More than the fact that he needed to find the words to explain it in a clear and precise way tonight, Will took particular pleasure in naming and understanding the feelings he experienced. In this manner he could better control them.

Fear, his mind supplied to him. But no, that wasn't quite right. To his recollection, Will had experienced fear precisely once in his life. Only a year ago, shortly before his transition to a Fifteen, and already unsettled by all the impending associated expectations and responsibilities, there had been An Incident.

Will had been riding towards his dwelling after volunteer work, the clicking of his bicycle wheels and the distant sound of the Eights and Nines at play the only sound in the neighbourhood, when suddenly there was a shriek unlike any he'd ever heard, full of terror. He'd rolled to a stop, one foot on the ground to balance himself as he craned his neck in the direction of the sound.

It had come from somewhere the next block over and was followed by another, weaker cry and the sound of a slamming door. In the silence that followed, the Eights and Nines drew near and tight to one another, their teachers hurrying them from the field. Adults had stopped in the middle of the street, pausing in their work, curious.

Before any of them could move to investigate, the speakers crackled to life and the voice that Will generally thought of as a calm and reassuring, if somewhat bland, now ordered EVERYONE PROCEED TO THE NEAREST BUILDING AND REMAIN INSIDE FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS with a sort of urgency that made Will's stomach dip sickly. He'd turned his bike towards his house, already nearly to the front gate, when the speaker crackled again and snapped LEAVE YOUR BICYCLES WHERE THEY ARE.

Will ran up the walkway and through his front door, without a second thought spared for his bicycle clattering to the pavement. His heart raced harder than it ever had in his life as he watched through the windows, the street cleaners and landscapers and delivery people disappearing in the other dwellings, leaving the streets empty, strewn with discarded bikes.

And then, a lurching figure made its way across the lawn between two houses across the street. It was Garret, who Will saw on occasion, when he came to repair the plumbing in their dwelling, or walking to work. His own daughter, Elise, was only a Five, so Will didn’t know her except in passing. Garret was unsteady on his feet and covered in something shiny and slick like water.

But, as Will watched him, something changed. In the late afternoon sunlight, the liquid covering Garret shimmered and became something altogether different in a way he couldn’t explain. As if aware of Will watching him, Garret turned to face him and the look in his eye was piercing. Will was frozen to the spot. Garret mouthed a word, but across the distance, Will couldn’t hear it. Then Garret continued on down the abandoned street and disappeared from sight.

It seemed like an eternity that Will sat alone, mind racing with possibilities, wondering where his parents were, and Beverly, if they were safe, nails biting crescent-shaped grooves into his palms. It was also the only time in his life he'd second-guessed the voice. What if something happened that they didn't understand? What if it was better to run to where there were others? What if Garret came back? What if he tried to come in?

But as the dusk gathered, the speakers crackled again, the voice slow and soothing. An accident had occurred, but everything was fine now. The voice assured the Community that for causing such distress, Garret had been Released. Will was not one to take such a threat lightly. Where other children joked about it, being Released was too serious a punishment for Will to find any humour, even in play. This time, however, he'd chuckled in the cool wash of relief that followed, knowing everything was alright.

The feeling Will was currently experiencing was no where near so extreme as what he'd felt that time. In the catalogue of emotions he kept safe in his mind, Will struggled to find one that best encapsulated the anticipation and potential for an unfavourable result, without veering into the overly dramatic.

So lost in thought, Will didn't notice Molly and some of the other Fifteens approaching him until she was alongside him. She gave him a smile—one that he sometimes saw in his mind's eye of in the early moments of waking, before he sat up from bed and took his medication. “You look like you're thinking too much,” she told him, but her teasing was as gentle as her smile.

“Ceremony's comin' up in a couple weeks,” Freddie said, coming alongside Molly on the other side fast. Legs kicked out, feet off the pedals, coasting along after pedaling fast, like the new Nines did, and was, while not against the rules, frowned upon. She glanced over at Will and wiggled her eyebrows once before pulling ahead of them.

Freddie, the adults said, was astute. Will thought she was nosy, always in everyone's business. And there was that thing with her hair. Will glared at it now, eyes narrowed, as it ribboned on the wind, doing that thing. Different, in the same way as Garret’s skin had been that day, and no one else seemed to see, but made his eyes cross and water.

Molly laughed easily. “Oh, Will, what's there to worry about?”

That was easy for Molly to say. They'd both chosen to work with the seniors for their most recent round of volunteer work, and where it had made Will vaguely uncomfortable Molly enjoyed it. She'd taken to it in a way that made the caregivers smile and murmur amongst themselves. While no one could ever really say with certainty where they'd be placed until the Ceremony of Sixteen, no one doubted that Molly would soon be apprenticing at the senior centre.

Will, on the other hand, had no real affinity for any of the jobs where he'd volunteered. The caregivers praised him for how careful he was with the seniors, how sensitive to their needs and attentive he was, but it was clear to one and all that the work distressed him. It was difficult to explain, given the peaceful environment of the centre. And the general cheerfulness of the seniors as they approached their Release—for the only time to look forward to Release was in old age, once no longer able to contribute to society.

All the same, the centre was stifling to Will; he could never draw a full breath. While the others gently encouraged the seniors towards their Release, Will had the oddest urge to cling to them. “You're so sensitive to others, Will,” his mother had said. “You bond with them far too quickly. You must remember, you're not there to foster relationships with our seniors, but to help them cut ties so they may exit the Community free and unburdened.”

Every one of his volunteer positions had ended the same. Working with the new children he’d been reluctant to part with then when the time came for them to be placed with a family unit. As an assistant to the teacher of the Sixes, he’d at first enjoyed interacting with them. But watching their interdependence give way to independence over the course of the year, watching them grow less playful and more solemn and silent and thoughtful filled him with melancholy.

Even working with the landscapers he'd been unsatisfied and confused by his orders. Of course he understood the importance of sameness, but when he was told to pluck the flowers that grew outside of their prescribed area, it seemed like an awful waste of something enjoyable in its perfection. Particularly the ones that flickered and blurred when he turned his head to the side. It was such an interesting phenomena, why would anyone want to destroy it? Then again, no one else seemed to notice it, even when Will pointed it out.

After they’d each retrieved a dinner tray and taken it to the table that evening, it was time for the telling of their feelings. Beverly went first, as she always did, outgoing and gregarious, the Overseer had said at her Ceremony of Sixteen, eager to share.

“I’ve been working with one new child in particular. Number forty-seven. She’s just not coming along like the others,” Beverly said, slumping in her seat. “I’m concerned she might not be ready in time for Placement.”

“That’s very serious, Beverly,” their mother said.

“She’s just so much younger than most of the others. I wish they could give us more time with her.”

Will had trouble swallowing his mouthful around the sudden lump in his throat. “What will they do if she’s not ready for Placement.”

Mother laid down her fork and dabbed delicately at her mouth. She and Father shared a look before she spoke. “It is a rare case that a new child isn’t ready for Placement. In those instances, they must be Released.”

“Well, not on my watch,” Beverly said. She looked suddenly hesitant, an unfamiliar expression on her. It seemed impossible that she was approaching her last year of apprenticeship and would soon move into her own dwelling and be paired with a spouse. “I was thinking, if I could get approval, it might help to bring her here with me after work. It might help her better adjust.”

“If you have it approved, I don’t see why not,” Father said. “Been awhile since we’ve seen a new child. Might be nice to have around.” He smiled at Mother, eyes twinkling. Will didn’t miss the way Mother’s lips tightened, the lines around them deepening. Nothing so severe as anger. That was rare indeed in adults.

Will was busy trying to make sense of what he read on his Mother’s face--displeasure, yes, but the motivation of the feeling was important. What reason would she have for not wanting a new child in their dwelling?--that he failed to notice for a moment all eyes on him.

“Will,” Father said, head dipped in questioning. His eyes, darker like Mother’s, like Beverly’s, but not like his own, sharp and insightful like Freddie’s, but kinder and more forgiving. “Your turn.”

Will fidgeted with his spoon, pushing it across the plate. He thought back on his struggle earlier in the day, to name the feeling he was experiencing. At last, his mind lighted on it. “I’m...apprehensive of the upcoming Ceremony.”

Mother granted him a brief smile of approbation. “We appreciate the precision of your language, Will.”

“Yes, but apprehension is unnecessary,” Father said. “The Elders have watched over each of you throughout the course of your education. They’ve paid close attention to your volunteer work, have noted your strengths and weaknesses. We trust them to assign us properly because they have never gotten it wrong before.”

“But for some it’s so obvious. Molly’s practically guaranteed to work with the Seniors, and Brian in Medical.” Will chose not to mention the fact that Freddie was likely to become a Judge, something which he found terribly unsettling. The idea that she would have power over who would be Released from the Community did inspire something rather close to fear in him. “Did you know what you were going to be?”

“It was always easy for your father,” Mother said. The smile didn’t reach her eyes. “A very clear and immutable sense of right and wrong, stern but fair. There was no other position for him but Judge. Any other would be a disservice to him and to the Community.”

“And you?”

“Not every position is viewed with such prestige, but we must remember they are all equally important. Remove just one, and slowly the Community would begin to crumble,” Mother explained. “I’ve always appreciated putting things in their proper place.”

Mother oversaw the distribution from the agricultural centre across the Community, ensuring that there was neither a shortage nor surplus--no one would go hungry, neither would there be any waste.

“Will,” Father said, “You’re very bright and a quick learner. I have no doubt that whatever the elders choose for you, it will be something you’ll excel at and grow to enjoy.”

Later that evening, Father took him aside. That little furrow between his brow seemed to grow larger and deeper with every passing year, something that made Will inexplicably sad at times to see. “I think you should go to Medical in the morning,” he said. “The injections are fairly standard, but in some cases they require some tweaking. I think a different dosage will help settle your mind.” He put a hand on Will’s shoulder briefly in parting, patting once on his way upstairs.

*

Most days, Will didn’t remember his dreams. First thing in the morning he would roll over and place his hand on the pod on his bedside table, from which a small lancet would shoot out, piercing his skin. The new dosage of medication took effect within a few moments and any Stirrings were quickly swept away. He was left feeling unable to focus on any particular emotion for any length of time.

Some mornings, though, Will lingered in the twilight space between sleep and wakefulness, clinging desperately to the fading impressions of his dreams. They were full of strange and fantastic images, things he didn’t understand but knew to be good nonetheless. Like when he closed his eyes as the Storyteller spun a tale, and he could see the words coming to life, but these were stories he’d never heard before.

Then there were the other dreams, both frightening and oddly thrilling. Asking Molly to undress and step in the tub so he could bathe her like he did the seniors, watching as she bared the pale, soft slope of her shoulder and knowing intrinsically that it was different from seeing the unclothed forms of the men and women he tended to.

Or chasing Freddie through a field of overgrown flowers, all of them flickering in that same strange way as her hair. Grabbing a fistful of her curls and yanking, and the rush of satisfaction when she cried in pain.

Or he and Andrew and Brian hiding in the one corner of the gardens where two hedges met behind the curtain of water falling from the fountain. That secret spot that was hidden from the cameras and microphones, so when Andrew touched a hand to his cheek and Brian to his arm, contact teasingly light in a way that made the fine hairs at the back of his neck stand on end, there was no announcement crackling to life over the speakers REMINDING THE FIFTEENS THAT TOUCHING ANYONE OUTSIDE OF YOUR FAMILY UNIT IS CONSIDERED RUDE AND INAPPROPRIATE.

All of these elicited a similar feeling in him, low in the pit of his stomach. The anticipation of a fall, accompanied by a hot rush shooting down his chest and between his legs. It was not altogether pleasant but he found himself craving it nonetheless, wishing to experience it more fully, to see where it might lead.

By the time he was up and showered and dressed, however, the dreams were nothing more than whispy trails of memory, fading into nothingness when he tried to grab for them during dream-sharing at breakfast. His telling of his dreams was usually little more than a vauge recollection of who had been in his dreams, and maybe where they’d been, at best.

Sometimes he’d catch sparks of them. Today, helping Katherine into the steaming water in the bath house, and seeing the papery-thin, almost translucent skin on of her stooped shoulders left him staring into space for a time, wondering what about it was familiar to him.

“Only a short while left,” Katherine said, eyes closed as she sank into the milky water. Will could almost feel her own peace falling over him, heavy and drowsily warm.

“Where do you go when you’re Released to Elsewhere?” Will asked.

“I don’t know. None of us does, really.”

Will lifted her arm to draw the sponge down the length of it. “But you want to go?”

“We had an early Release a few months ago.” Katherine rested her head against the rim of the tub and sighed in relief. “Lloyd, it was his time. He was restless and ready to go, and they decided not to make him wait. I’ve never seen a look of such happiness as when he stood in the doorway of the Releasing room and turned to wave goodbye. In Elsewhere there will be no suffering. We will spend our days in tranquil repose, our every need catered to.”

Personally, Will didn’t see how that was much different to how things were done here in the senior centre, but there was no denying the fact that an almost infectious spirit of joyous anticipation had overtaken the centre. In particular, those who would be Released at this year’s ceremony seemed rejuvenated.

Considering her upcoming Release, and his own recent thoughts on the subject of Garret, Will found himself wondering if Katherine would see him in Elsewhere. When he brought up the subject later with his friends, Margot shrugged.

“Someone’s gotta be there to take care of them, right? And the new children that are Released? Guess that’s part of the punishment and rehabilitation of early Release.”

“Yeah, but it’s not always punishment,” Jimmy said. “My mother told me that she knew a female who applied for Release after her second child left their dwelling and the next day she was gone.”

“There ya go,” Freddie said approaching from behind, tone snide. She flopped down next to Brian. “If you don’t like your assignment, you could always apply for Release, Will.”

All their friends turned to look at her and Molly said sternly, “That’s not funny.”

On cue, there was a crackling sound and the voice on the speaker announced FIFTEENS ARE REMINDED THAT RUDENESS IS NOT TOLERATED UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.

Freddie hesitated, and for a moment Will would swear she could see inside his head and knew what he dreamed. But then she gave Will a bright, disingenuous smile, and said, “I apologise for my rudeness.”

Will smiled back, feeling the tight pull of it in his cheeks, teeth gritted when he muttered back, “Your apology is accepted.”

That evening, when Beverly returned to their dwelling, she came with a new child carrier in tow. They all gathered around to get their look at New Child #47. She was smaller than most new children Will had worked with during his volunteership, despite her age, with pale skin and eyes. She was fussing and when Will stroked his palm over her fine, soft hair, the cries subsided.

“Well look at that,” Father said. “Maybe you’ll end up with the new children yet.”

Will kept to himself that he sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case. While he looked forward to someday having a spouse and receive children of his own, he didn’t have it in him to care for those he’d have to part with.

“I took a peek at the list for the ceremony,” Beverly whispered, running a finger along 47’s palm. Her tiny fingers twitched and closed in a fist around Beverly’s finger. “They’re going to call her Abigail.”

“Beverly,” their mother chastised. Before taking his new medication, he might have been able to tease out the melange of feelings that crossed her face in a flash, both positive and negative, but now it was entirely beyond him.

“It might do her some good to hear it,” Beverly said.

Father said, “It’s nice to meet you, Abigail.”

“Jack,” Mother hissed, but Father only smiled.

“There’s nothing we can do about it now, Phyllis.” Mother didn’t protest again after that.

“She doesn’t have a comfort object yet,” Beverly said. Will’s own comfort object had been something called a dog, an imaginary creature with a tail and floppy ears, and covered in long hair. Parting with it at his Ceremony of Nine had been very difficult for Will. “I’m going to see if I can bring one with us next week. There’s one they call a deer that she’s always staring at.”

Abigail sat in a highchair at the dinner table and babbled noisily through the meal, smearing the soft vegetables in her bowl all over her face and clothes. Mother was clearly not yet won over, but Will didn’t mind. He thought it was nice, actually, having a new child around the house. Father was right. It cheered the place up a bit. He supposed if there were anything good to come from his upcoming assignment, it would be that he was that much closer to having a dwelling and new child of his own to care for.

*

December 31st, Will woke ahead of his alarm and lay in bed a long while, watching the light outside his window grow gradually brighter. Will was lost in thought as he readied himself for the day. It took little attention to go through the motions of showering and shaving (every other day was enough to keep himself within the Community’s standards), and dressing in his same outfit he did everyday. The last day in this particular style, the same that all other Fifteens wore. Tomorrow he’d begin the new year in the uniform of his assignment.

During Will breakfast, his parents didn’t comment on his brief and distracted dream-sharing, for which he was thankful. After, they and Beverly joined him on his way out of the dwelling. Today they left their bikes parked in the shed, joining the procession of other families down the sidewalks towards the centre of the Community.

Sixes walked with their heads held high and proud, soon to trade in their back-buttoned jackets for front-fastened ones. Twelves chattered about which volunteer position they hoped to take first. Some nines nervously clung to their comfort objects, others expressed their excitement over having their own bike. As he drew near to the Fifteens, Will was relieved to note he wasn’t the only one who was more quiet and introspective this morning.

The day was temperate, and Will understood the meaning of the word: neither hot nor cold, mild, comfortable, but he’d never understood it in this context. There were cold beverages or hot foods, but the weather was always the same. Through the year there were times when the sun rose earlier and fell later, but beyond the length sunlight there was little difference between one day and the next.

As they approached the assembly hall, Will separated from his family unit, going to join the other Fifteens in their assigned spot. His parents climbed into the stands to observe, Beverly went behind the stage with the other Nurturers. It was as orderly as any other Community gathering, and soon everyone had filed into place a dull roar of conversation rising over the room.

They were arranged in order of their birth number. Though they were rarely referred to by that designation, they all knew their numbers well. Will’s relatively early number had given him a bit of a head start in their youth, already walking and babbling at his Placement whereas Margot was still a babe in arms. By the time they’d progressed to Threes, however, it had mostly evened out.

Jimmy was all the way over in spot number 1, Molly at number 23, Brian a few down at 27, Margot in the back at number 49. Will as too far away from any of them to speak to them, stuck at number 7, Freddie at his side. He ignored her pointed stare, eyes fixed straight ahead.

Precisely on time, the Overseer walked onto the stage and the crowd fell silent. She wore a slightly different style of suit from the other adults in the administrative sector, with a high collar. Her light hair was twisted up in an elaborate design on her head. There was something about her features, sharp and pleasant looking, that reminded him of Freddie and unsettled him for the same reason.

“Good morning,” she greeted, in her low, somnolent tone. The crowd echoed it back to her. She gave them a smile that wrinkled the skin around her mouth, but not her eyes, and nodded her head in acceptance of their warm reception. “We have a long day ahead of us, and I apologise in advance for the length of it.”

“We accept your apology,” the crowd echoed back by rote.

“So let us not waste any time.” The Overseer clapped her hands once. “It is my great pleasure to introduce you all to the newest members of our Community, and ask you to join in welcoming them on this joyous occasion of their Naming.”

For a time, Will was swept up in the excitement and happiness of the Naming and Placement of the new children, and could forget his own impending Assignment. Beverly was on the stage, a new child in her lap. It was not Abigail, who’d been left in the nurturing centre for the day.

Beverly had managed to convince her superiors that, because of recent signs of improvement, she should not be Released, but instead held back another year. Will had felt a wash of relief at the news. He’d been torn up by the idea of Abigail being sent Elsewhere, never allowed to return, even after she’d grown. Now she would still get her Placement and Naming, if a year late. In the meantime, Beverly would continue to bring her back to the dwelling in the evenings.

Each family unit was called to the stage, children leaving their numbered spots to join their families for the Placement before rejoining their age groups. They all applauded vigorously for Lloyd, taking the name of the Released senior, Katherine’s friend, and Duncan, a senior who’d been Released last year.

Names were only reused once the previous recipient had left the Community, once a senior had moved on and was Released, or in other rare occasions. Will still remembered a few years before when a new Miriam had been given to a family unit who had lost their previous Miriam at age five.

Loss was not the same as Release. Will couldn’t say in what way, but he knew that there was a sense of mourning over Miriam’s departure from the Community. Having slipped away from her parents and fallen into the river, she’d been whisked away never to be seen again.

Such a thing was almost unheard of, and they’d done the Ceremony of Loss for her, chanting her name throughout the day and into the early evening, with ever decreasing volume, until it seemed to dissipate into the dark of the night. Since then, the name had not been spoken again until this moment, and it was met with a roar of approval as her parents once again held Miriam in their arms.

The only other Loss Will knew of was Louise, who had gone from them the same day that her husband Garret had been Released. Eventually there would be another Louise, but not another Garret. The names of those who were Released as punishment disappeared from the Community forever.

Once the Naming and Placement had passed, however, Will quickly grew bored with the proceedings. After the new Eights were presented with their new jackets, with a row of smaller buttons down the front, distinguishing them from the over-sized buttons of the Sevens, the Community took a break for lunch. If Will was apprehensive before, now his nerves were forming knots in his stomach. He gathered with his friends on the lawn to eat their packed lunches, but Will barely touched his.

When the returned, the Nines were presented with their first bikes, the Tens lined up on stage to receive their haircuts--males with their ears uncovered, females braids cut off at the jawline. After their Assignments they’d be allowed a bit more freedom in selection of their hairstyle, but from age ten to sixteen they would maintain this cut. Will reached up to feel the short ends of his hair, just starting to curl against his fingertips, and wondered if a change in style might be appropriate in his new position.

The day wore on, and at last, as evening began to spread outside the windows, the Fifteens were addressed. Overseer Bedelia turned her gaze upon them, and seemed to address each of them individually, gaze sweeping over them as she spoke.

“Thank you for your patience, Fifteens,” she murmured. In the quiet of the room, her voice carried far. “I know it must be especially difficult on a day such as today. The day when, after years of learning how to fit in and striving never to stand out from your group, we now honour your unique skills that set you apart from one another. We have seen among you those talented at engineering and math, those who care for our new children, and those who care for our seniors, those with the patience to teach and those with the temperance to judge. Today is the day to celebrate these differences, as they have determined your future.”

A sort of comforting warmth spread over Will as she spoke, reassuring him. Her soothing voice told him everything would be fine. The Elders chose their assignments with absolute care. Wherever Will ended up, it was the place he was meant to be.

“Number One, please come to the stage,” the Overseer called and Jimmy rose, throwing a nervous and excited grin over his shoulder to Will and the others before hurrying up the steps.

Behind Overseer Bedelia and Jimmy, the screen at the back of the stage lit up with images of Jimmy throughout his youth--from his Placement with his family unit to his Ceremony of Nine when he knocked the podium over with his bike trying to ride it off stage. The audience tittered with laughter and Jimmy hung his head sheepishly, laughing along with them.

“Jimmy,” the Overseer said, smiling indulgently. “You have always been a cheerful child, and a joy to your peers and the Community at large. Your time volunteering with Recreation was a pleasure for one and all, and at the time we thought for certain that was where you would be assigned.” The images changed to Jimmy helping the new Nines riding their own bicycles, playing frisbee on the Green with a group of Elevens and Twelves, trying, and failing, to juggle a handful of balls.

“But then you began your volunteer work in the laboratory.” The pictures were now of Jimmy in a lab coat, goggles on his face. Will had never seen him looking so serious or studious, bent over a microscope or caught mid-sentence explaining something to a colleague. “The scientists all appreciated the levity you brought to the lab, and _we_ were all pleasantly surprised by the skill and professionalism you exhibited.”

Jimmy beamed with pride as the Overseer pinned the badge of the Biologist to his chest and announced, “Jimmy, you are assigned to work in the Biology Lab. Thank you for your childhood.”

There was applause, milder than usual, the audience stunned by this turn of events. If anyone had seemed perfectly suited to Recreation, it was Jimmy, but Will could tell he was overjoyed with this Assignment. He went to his new seat, now the first of the Sixteens seated at the beginning of the observational stands, where the adults sat.

Number Two was quiet, shy male named Francis who was assigned to Observation, and Number Three a female named Lindsay assigned to Aviation. As each number rose to the stage, the Overseer spoke of their strengths and passed on their Assignment, thanking them for their childhoods. Number Six, a cheerful female named Georgia was sent to work in the Fish Hatchery and Will sat up straighter in his seat as she walked off the stage to applause, almost vibrating with tension.

Overseer Bedelia picked up her next file from the podium, glanced out at Will, and then spoke. “Number Eight, please come to the stage.”

Will froze, muscles seizing up in the process of standing. He and Freddie shared a wide-eyed look of confusion, and Freddie seemed reluctant to stand, as if the Overseer would quickly realise her mistake and correct it. But after a moment’s pause, she got to her feet and approached the stage.

A murmur rippled through the crowd as Freddie came to stand beside the Overseer. Will could feel all eyes on him and fought the urge to sink lower in his seat. He didn’t hear what assignment Freddie received, ears roaring loud enough to block out all other sound. When the Overseer called Number Nine, Will knew it wasn’t a simple mistake. That sickly feeling in his stomach was back, but stronger now. Perhaps he could rightly name it fear at last?

And on it went, through the teens and into the twenties. When Molly’s number was called she walked close by Will’s seat, casting him a compassionate glance as she went. No one was at all surprised by her assignment with the seniors, and Will forced himself to clap, as he had with all the previous assignments--it would have been unforgivably rude not to--but he was numb to her happiness.

Brian was called and received an assignment to the Medical Centre, flushing red at the Overseer’s praise of his work on helping adjust dosages to eliminate side-effects. Through the Thirties Will sat in his seat, unable to ignore the fact that he now sat mostly alone in a sea of empty chairs, only highlighting the fact that he’d been intentionally skipped.

Margot came, second to last, actually touching his shoulder in concern as she passed, and where she normally would have been chastised, the Overseer ignored it altogether. Margot’s assignment as Birth Mother might have shocked Will under different circumstances. It wasn’t a prestigious or dignified position--four years of being coddled and pampered while they bore children, then the rest of their life in doing labour, and Margot in particular who, Will knew, enjoyed working with the new children, seemed unsuited for it. But her eyes glistened happily at the assignment. Maybe she liked the idea of being the one to give life to the new children.

Finally Fifty, a male called Franklyn was assigned to Food Production, and Will was left alone. His heart thudded in the cage of his chest, and there was such a torrent of emotion in him he could not name it all. Foremost, along with the fear, was shame. He couldn’t even bring himself to look into the crowd behind him, afraid of what he might see on the faces of his parents and Beverly. The nervous shifting of his group-leader Neal was bad enough.

Franklyn walked off the stage to mild, scattered applause, and the crowd began to murmur again. The Overseer held up a hand and all fell silent. “I see that I have caused you confusion, and I apologise for this.” At her smile, some of the tension in the audience began to dissipate and they chanted their forgiveness.

“I apologise to you, in particular, Will,” she said, turning her unwavering gaze on him. “I have caused you great distress.”

Will had to swallow hard before he could speak. “I accept your apology.”

Overseer Bedelia dipped her head in gratitude. “Please come to the stage now.”

Ever obedient, Will’s body rose to his feet, even though his mind was still in turmoil. He was very much an observer as his legs, leaden and unwieldy, wove between the chairs and up the steps of the stage. The Overseer drew him to stand at her side, and placed her hands on his shoulder. She had always seemed larger than life, but now Will was distinctly aware of how small she was, a full head shorter than him, slender and frail. Her touch didn’t inspire confidence where it might once have.

“You see, Will has not been assigned.” Will had barely more than a second to process the word and feel something dreadful and cold sweep through his body before she continued. “He has been selected.”

Will thought about the precision of language, as they were all carefully taught whilst they were Threes. The rod used to punish them when they misspoke--a hard rap on their hands for the first transgression, and against their bare legs for the second. Some suffered extensively before they learned, but Will had always had an affinity for language and had been careful with it, always considering his words before he spoke them.

To be assigned was to be given your position as a normal member of the Community. To be selected meant that he had been carefully chosen as the most suitable for a special duty. It made him different. As the rest of his groupmates fell into line, he now stood apart from them. Knowing this did not lead to any understanding on his part, however.

“Will, you have been selected to be our new Receiver of Memory.”

The words, which meant nothing to Will, has a clear impact on the audience, which inhaled sharply as one, eyes widening in awe as they observed Will with this new information. He stood still adrift, held only in place by the Overseer’s touch.

“Such a selection is rare indeed. Sometimes it can be decades between selections. Our current Receiver was himself selected twelve years ago today, as some of you may recall.”

They were faint noises of confirmation among the adults, and their gazes drifted to a man sitting in the back row of the elders. Only he wasn’t an elder. He was perhaps exactly twelve years older than Will, if he understood the Overseer. Hair down to his chin that should have caused him to stand out, as it was disallowed for adults, along with similarly prohibited scruff of facial hair left to grow for a day or two. His clothing was different, too, a darker fabric, a fitted jacket and tailored slacks, unnecessary layers, patterns, and ornamentation.

Yet Will hadn’t even noticed him before, eyes skating over him as he’d taken in the elders over the course of the day. Now the man caught him staring and held his gaze. Will, embarrassed, found he could not look away. The man’s eyes seemed to bore into his skull, reading his very thoughts, as the Overseer began to speak again.

“The selection of a Receiver is not one made lightly, or in haste. Assignments are based on best evidence of your skills, but you are all still so young when they are made. Early aptitude may be misleading. What may first appear to be patience may reveal itself to be indolence, for example. Understanding of the beginning principals of a subject does not necessarily lead to mastery. We do our best, but mistakes are made occasionally. Corrections to be made. With the Receiver, there can be no such mistake. Once a Receiver is selected, it can not be undone.”

Overseer Bedelia went on, telling how Will had been put forth as a possible candidate from a young age, then enumerating those qualities she and the elders had seen in Will--intelligence which would blossom into wisdom, and integrity--that had assured them they were correct in nominating him. The entire time, the man watched Will and Will watched him back. He couldn’t say if the curiosity was his own, or something in the man’s face.

“But most of all,” the Overseer exclaimed, “the Receiver must have great courage, for he will endure great pain in this position. Pain the rest of us cannot comprehend.”

At that, Will tore his gaze away to look at the Overseer in questioning. She was still as placid and unconcerned as ever. But in the audience, his parent’s faces were drawn with worry, and Beverly’s mouth hung half-opened like she wanted to protest and caught herself just short of doing so. All his friends regarded him with wide eyes, as lost as he was.

“Will has endured pain--we all have from time to time--falling when we play, tumbling as we learn to ride our bicycles, the occasional trip from time to time. The pain Will will undergo as Receiver is far greater. It is a burden he carries for all of us, one we know he will shoulder, and the reason the Receiver is the most honoured position in our Community.”

Beneath her hand, Will trembled, and his fear returned, growing unbound. He imagined he could almost see it, dark and heavy pulling at his ankles, trying to drag him down. How could they call him courageous when he wanted nothing so much as to run away. They were wrong about him. They had made a mistake somewhere, and he needed to speak to correct it before it was too late.

Then the Overseer spoke again.

“There is one final quality that sets the Receiver apart from the others.” And Will’s stomach surged when she said, “The Capacity to See Beyond.” When Will looked back at the man, and his eyes flickered in that same way as Freddie’s hair, he realised they weren’t mistaken after all.

“Will.” The Overseer led him by hand to meet her face to face. “Thank you for your childhood.”

Silence fell at first, but it was no longer fearful or confused. It was reverent. For _him._ Then, from somewhere in the back of the assembly where the seniors sat, someone began to chant his name. Slowly it spread throughout the crowd, gaining in volume, until his name rose up like a roar from their lips. Something in Will thrilled sickly at the sound of it.

*

It was late by the time Will arrived at the dwelling that evening. One night a year--the last night--there was some leeway in the rules, allowing citizens to stay out past curfew. As the crowd dispersed, Will was surrounded by his groupmates, all eagerly congratulating one another on their assignments. All, of course, except for Will, who was met with some hesitation and guarded looks.

“Just give them time to adjust to it,” Molly told him, when she caught up with him.

Margot bumped her shoulder against his, a touch that could easily be excused for clumsiness. The speakers did not come alive to chastise her, at any rate. “You’ve always been a little different, Will,” she said, with some humour in her tone. “They just confirmed what we all knew.”

Will wanted to be able to smile with her, but Freddie was glaring at him suspiciously and Will was dismayed to see the badge on her jacket was the same as the one his father wore. Freddie had been Assigned to be a Judge.

No matter what the Overseer had said about the honour of his new position, the fact remained that he was now different, and differences were to be eliminated when they could be, and ignored when the couldn’t. Even now people were edging around him as they pushed out of the auditorium, giving him a wide berth.

By the time Will separated himself from his friends and returned to his dwelling, his parents and Beverly were already there. Abigail was playing quietly on the floor with a comfort object--the deer, Will assumed, with light fur and lighter spots, on four legs with a stub of a tail. He sat beside her and touched his palm to her back, and for the first time all day a genuine, if tremulous smile crossed his face.

“We’re so proud of you,” his father told him. Will knew it to be the truth. His pride and happiness was pure and warm.

Mother, on the other hand, spoke her approbation with her words, and her cautious concern with her eyes. “The elders have been searching a long while for a new Receiver of Memories. When the Receiver chosen, the previous Receiver was quite old, nearly ready for Release. They didn’t want to take any chances this time, but they couldn’t rush the process. Your ability to See is a great gift to us all, Will.”

It didn’t feel like a gift, but Will kept that thought to himself.

In his room, Will changed into his bedclothes and then took out the folder he’d been presented in the Ceremony. Their folders contained all the information they needed about their Assignments--rules, regulations, and an outline for their apprenticeship to be studied and learned.

Margot’s had been a small pamphlet, and Molly’s slightly thicker, though she was no doubt already aware of the rules and regulations of the senior centre. Jimmy’s and Brian’s had been thicker, and Freddie’s the thickest of all. Will imagined them all in their rooms, eagerly pouring over their folders, excited for tomorrow to begin--a new day and a new year, beginning their last transition from childhood to adulthood, and full-fledged citizens.

Will, however, took a moment to label his current feeling as dread, before flipping open his thin folder. For all that the Overseer had spoken of courage and wisdom and intelligence at the ceremony, Will had expected a whole volume of rules and lessons. But inside there was a single sheet of paper:

No. 7 : Will  
Receiver of Memories

From this moment on, you are permitted to lie.  
From this moment on, you are exempt from rules governing rudeness. You may ask any question of any citizen and receive an answer.  
From this moment on, you are prohibited from dream-sharing.  
Every morning immediately after breakfast you will leave your dwelling and proceed to the garden annex for your lessons.  
Every day immediately following the end of your training you will leave the annex for your dwelling.  
You are prohibited from sharing any aspect of your training with anyone, including members of your family unit.  
You are prohibited from petitioning for Release.

That was it. Will flipped over the paper, but there was nothing else written on the back. He carefully tucked it back inside his folder which he placed in his desk, and lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was late, far past time for sleep, but his mind was racing with questions.

How was he supposed to avoid dream-sharing? Now that he was permitted to lie, should he simply make up a story about what he’d dreamed? Or should he say he had no dreams at all? And on the topic of lying, why should he be given such permission? It only made the unsettling feeling within him grow.

The one rule that gave him any measure of peace was that which permitted him to ask any question. At least tomorrow he could ask these questions of the Receiver. Though, if the Receiver was allowed to lie, how could Will know if any answer he was given was the truth?

*

The garden annex was tucked around the side of the building, in the wall that ran the entire perimeter of the community. In this area it was mostly hidden by rows of trees and the climbing vines. The door was a small wooden and metal opening with a knocker attached and above the handle was a small, strange opening. Like the Receiver, Will must have seen this door before, but he had somehow slipped his notice. Apprehensive, he lifted his hand to tap the knocker against the door.

In the brief moment he had to wait, Will considered running away. Fuelled by a burst of fear he thought of following the wall to where it ended at the water and jumping in. Swimming and swimming until he ended up somewhere different, where there wasn’t all this expectation and the promise of pain he couldn’t even imagine. But it was so absurd, he had to swallow back a nervous titter of laughter at the notion.

Then the door opened and the man stood before him in another of his strange outfits that accentuated his tall and slender form, his longish hair swept back from his brow. “Will.” He beckoned with a crooked finger. “Please come in.”

There was nothing in particular about the man that should give Will any cause for concern, nor anything about the room they stood in, a small, dark alcove with three doors similar to the one he’d just entered. Still the sound of the door closing behind him made him jump. The Receiver turned a knob on the door, and at Will’s curious look, said, “It’s a lock.”

“Lock?” Will echoed, scanning his memory. He’d heard the word of course, knew what it meant in relation to computers. Restricted files were password locked. In this context, however, he was at a loss. Why put a lock on a door?

The Receiver said, “We don’t want to be interrupted, as unlikely a prospect as that is. And on that note…” He reached for the speaker on his wall, the same as every speaker in every dwelling, save for one detail. The Receiver’s had a switch on it, which he now flipped over to _off_. Will had never seen one like that before.

They stood in silence for a moment, the Receiver examining Will’s face. “You’re nervous,” he said. Will almost jumped a second time when the man touched his shoulder. “I wish there were something I could tell you to reassure you, but I’m afraid that what the Overseer said at the ceremony was true.”

Will swallowed. “The pain, you mean.”

“Yes, there will be pain, and sadness. But there will be pleasure, as well. We will begin with something easy. Come.”

Through the door to the right was a room unlike any Will had ever seen. A wide staircase spiraled down into great room. As he descended, Will stared around himself in wonder. Row upon row of shelves lined the walls, each filled with books of varying shapes and sizes. In Will’s dwelling they had a small shelf with a few books--references, dictionaries, and the rule book--but this...There were _hundreds_ of them. Could they be more rules? Perhaps for other neighbourhoods? References for the various jobs?

“Those are fictions,” the Receiver said, interrupting his reverie, and Will tore his gaze away to meet the man’s.

“You mean lies.”

The Receiver tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing until they were nearly closed. “Stories,” he corrected thoughtfully. “They were created not to deceive, but for entertainment and enjoyment.”

“That sounds…” _Enchanting. Wonderful_. Will turned back to the nearest shelf, drinking in the glossy words written on the spines. Names like Dickens and Twain, Tolstoy and Orwell, Shakespeare and Frank.

“They cannot be taken from this dwelling, however there will plenty of time for you to enjoy them here.” The Receiver gave a slight tug on Will’s elbow. “At a later point in time.”

“Of course,” Will agreed obediently, though he still longed to peruse the books. He allowed the Receiver to lead him to a pair of chairs set before a giant window that stretched from floor to ceiling, over-looking the water. The early morning light was nearly blinding, reflecting on the surface. The Receiver snapped closed the curtains, thick, heavy fabric that completely blocked out the light from the outdoors, plunging the room into darkness.

The chairs were luxurious, the cushion thickly padded, the material plush and soft under his palm. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the wall sconces, Will caught a glimpse of a desk covered in detailed sketches, the details of which he couldn’t quite make out.

“Receiver--”

“There is only one Receiver of Memories,” the Receiver said curtly, taking the seat across from Will. He pulled it so close their knees nearly touched. His eyes were piercing when he looked into Will’s. “That’s you, now.”

“So…” Will faltered. “What do I call you?”

“You may call me Hannibal. There is no need to stand on pretence.”

That was easy for him to say--Hannibal was the one in the position of honour. Will was just a new trainee, fresh out of childhood, not yet an adult. “Alright. Hannibal.” Will tested the name. “How does the training work for the Receiver? There was nothing in the folder I received, nothing to help me prepare.”

“I could fill these shelves with words of explanation on what your position will entail, and reading them would do you no good. There are things you must simply experience in order to understand.”

Will rubbed his hands, damp with sweat, on his slacks. “Then how do we begin?”

“Like this.” Hannibal reached out with both hands, cupping Will’s face in his palms. Long fingers curved over Will’s cheeks and into his hair. Outside of his family unit, it was a rare thing to be touched, especially by a virtual stranger. It was so shockingly intimate, Will would have pulled away, would have protested, but he raised his eyes to Hannibal’s in outrage, and suddenly the room before him disappeared.

He was seated at a long dining table, covered in trays of food. There was something on the wall, doing that thing that Freddie’s hair did from time to time, but far more impressive, crackling and snapping as it flared within its brick confines. Will stared, entranced, and wondered if he might reach out and run his fingers through it. If it might feel like water, the way it flowed like liquid.

_Fire_ , something in Will’s mind supplied. _Dangerous. Don’t touch._

Just like that, a whole new vocabulary sprung to life, naming all the foreign things in the room. The ornate, gilt mirror on the wall. A chandelier dripping faceted gemstones from the ceiling. Peacock feathers and chrysanthemums in the centerpiece. Cut crystal, the glasses that caught the firelight and sparkled with it. On his plate was roasted lamb, sweet corn pudding, asparagus with parmesan and lemon juice.

Will’s mouth watered at the memory of these things, though he’d never heard of them or even dreamed they might exist until now. He brought the first mouthful to his lips and moaned at the flavour that spread over his palate. Rich and exotic, and so far from the bland, perfectly portioned meals Will was accustomed to they weren’t even comparable. These were spices, he now understood--thyme and rosemary and oregano, and oh, the wine! Heady and fruity in his mouth, leaving him thirsty for more with every swallow.

It glowed like a jewel in the light, a deep ruby red.

Hannibal’s hands left his face and with a gasp, Will came back to himself. Red, his mind offered helpfully, staring into Hannibal’s eyes. They glinted with a hint of it. “What--”

 

                    

 

Before Will could form the question, Hannibal’s hands were on his face again. Will’s whole body jerked with the force of the vision as it overtook him. He was standing outside the very room where he’d just dined, could see the inviting glow of the fire through frosted windows.

There were people gathered there now, ranging in age from new children to seniors. Threes or Fours wrapped in the arms of a senior woman before the fireplace. A man and woman embracing in the doorframe. A group of teenagers whispering together in the corner. A new child bundled to her father’s chest by a cloth sling. They were all smiling and laughing, and effusive cheer that was contagious. Will found himself smiling along with them.

Outdoors it was cold and Will began to shiver. The clothing he wore was a coat, and the fabric was rough against his cheek when he tugged up the collar. Something called wind wormed its way through every opening in his clothing, sapping his warmth. Though uncomfortable, Will had no desire to leave.

Cold, wet spots spread on the exposed skin of his face and hands. Delicate little things that melted almost the moment they met the heat of him. Will could see the individual flakes as they drifted slowly to the ground, perfect symmetrical patterns, each a work of art. The look of it in the moonlight was dazzling.

“Wait--” He clung to the memory when Hannibal’s hands dropped away again. “That was--” Will didn’t have words for what that was, and Will was never at a loss for words. Only there was no way to describe it, no superlative to do it justice.

A strange smile teased at Hannibal’s lips before his face smoothed out in an expressionless mask. “Tell me what you remember.”

“The stuff. The…” Will closed his eyes and concentrated on how it had felt against his cheeks. “Snow. It’s beautiful. Why don’t we have snow?”

Hannibal shrugged one shoulder. “For there to be snow, there must be cold. The crops would die, there would be a shortage of food, people would go hungry. It happened before, and that is why we have the Community now. Our scientists control the climate, allowing us to grow crops year round.”

“But we could store our food.”

“There are other consequences of extreme weather--destructive winds and rains that tear down buildings, flooding that washes away people and towns, rainy seasons that bring insects that carry sickness.”

“Rain,” Will says. “Can you show me?”

Will had the feeling of being dissected by Hannibal’s strange eyes. “We should take things slowly for now. You currently don’t have the capacity to understand how many things there are for me to show you. You don’t possess the vocabulary for me to describe them to you.”

“I know that,” Will said. Oh, that was impatience. He rarely experienced that much these days, quick to tamp down on such a rude, rebellious emotion, but he recalled it from his childhood. He cast his gaze at the floor. “I apologise for my rudeness.”

“Will.” Hannibal’s tone was gentle and patient. “The rules you’ve lived your life by have no meaning in this room. I would prefer that you apologise only when you mean it, not as a token gesture.”

Will nodded. “I’d just really like to see more.”

Hannibal tilted his head appraisingly. “One more,” he agreed, and Will grinned.

This time, Will lifted his face eagerly for Hannibal’s touch. When their skin made contact and the room melted away, Will found himself in a field of wild grass. It grew so high that it brushed the palms of his hands when he held them at his side. Flowers scattered across the sea of grass, some of them dotting what he now knew to be red among the varying shades of light.

The sunlight shone low on the horizon, cutting through the haze in the air, which was thick with humidity and dust and pollen. Sweat beaded on his forehead and in the small of his back and trickled down his skin. Though it was uncomfortable, all these new sensations associated with the heat and buzzing insects, Will didn’t want to leave this place. He wanted to drink in every single detail.

“Focus.” Hannibal’s voice was faint, as if carried on the breeze from a great distance. “Understand the word golden, and what it means in this context.”

Presented with this new word, Will’s mind automatically supplied the definition. Words like yellow-brown and precious metal sprung up without real understanding, but as Will considered them, squinting into the sunlight, the field began to blur. Like a ripple in the surface of water, it expanded outwards. It took the shades of light and dark and burnished them with a resplendent, dazzling glow.

From the rays of the sun like the spokes of his bike spiking colour across the bland uniformity of the sky to the honey-gold of the wheatberries to the richer, warmer marigold of the stalks, and the pale sandy shade of the brushy grass, it was so wonderful, something in Will’s chest ached at the sight of it.

Hannibal’s touch left his face, and at once the vision began to fade, but Will was reluctant to open is eyes. Though he couldn’t see the field with the same vivid immediacy, he could see an afterimage on the backs of his eyelids. All that gold in such a complexity of shade… What could be wrong with seeing that? How could that cause any harm to befall them?

When at last he opened his eyes, Will sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. He wasn’t certain what he’d expected, but now that he’d come to understand the concept of the colour, and had seen it in his vision, he could see it here in Hannibal’s dwelling, as well. In the blinding light coming through the window, catching on all the details around the room that Will had failed to notice and now he couldn’t help but see.

“I know you have many questions,” Hannibal said into the silence. “For now, I think it best that you take some time to reflect on what you have seen today and gather your thoughts. Tomorrow I will provide all the answers you seek.”

Will wanted to protest, to ask for more of the visions, but he knew Hannibal would not relent. More than that, he knew his asking would disappoint Hannibal. How he arrived at either of these conclusions was impossible to say--if it was something he saw in Hannibal’s face and processed without conscious thought, or if the visions had given him some understanding he hadn’t previously had, maybe?

Will bit his lip against his protestations and pleas, and bent his head in acquiescence.

Hannibal saw him to the door. There were no remonstrations to return straight to his dwelling or keep his training to himself. He simply led Will out with a, “Until tomorrow,” and closed the door behind him, apparently unconcerned with how thoroughly he’d shaken Will’s view of the world.

Through the garden and pedalling back, Will wandered as if lost, following any trace of red and gold--in the neatly maintained flowerbeds, the ornamental berries, the flush in the gardener’s cheeks and the lips of the people he passed, all varying shades of red. Gold in the fixtures of the lamp posts, the metal numbers identifying the houses. In the bell and hands on the clocktower. Had it really only been a couple of hours since he’d left his dwelling this morning?

The dwelling was empty when Will arrived. It was unusual--between schooling and recreation hours, his father and mother were often there when he came in. Without them, it was unnervingly quiet. There was nothing to distract Will from thoughts of what he’d just seen. Instead, he did as Hannibal instructed. In his room, with the door closed behind him, he lay on the bed with closed eyes and brought to mind the first image Hannibal had shared with him.

In the moment, Will had been too caught up in all the new sights and tastes and words to really focus on any particular detail. He began to tease them out now. Of all the glorious scents in that first vision, the one that stuck with him strongest was the tangy, smoky cedar logs on the fireplace. He imagined he could still smell now hanging on his clothing, vaguely sweet. It had a warming effect, as if he still sat before the glow of the flames.

More than the physical warmth, however, was a feeling from within, of comfort associated with the place. The home. Will didn’t entirely understand the word, even with the definition, synonymous with dwelling. There was something else, something intangible, an idea of what home really meant. Happiness, safety, connection. A sense of belonging that went beyond the superficial, imposed conformity of the Community.

Will spent so long considering these things and was so lost in his own thoughts, he wasn’t aware of his mother and father arriving home until his bedroom door opened. “Will.” His mother’s voice was mingled surprise, concern, and reprimand. “Are you feeling unwell?”

Will’s automatic response in the past would have been to explain that while he wasn’t unwell, he was feeling out of sorts and distressed. Now, he opened his mouth to do so, drew in a breath, and then closed his mouth again. He could lie now, if he wanted to, and without being able to tell his mother about his training, there was no way for her to understand what he was feeling. She’d just send him to Medical for another dosage adjustment.

“I guess I’m just tired from lessons today.”

Appeased by his answer, Mother reminded him of dinner in twenty minutes, and purposefully left the door open behind her.

Dinner was disappointing compared to what Will remembered from the feast in his vision. If the whole point of weather control was to ensure that the crops grew and there was plenty of food, why couldn’t it be food like that? Will poked sullenly at his plain brown rice until his parents exchanging concerned looks. Then he straightened and choked it back, trying to recall the texture of the lamb and that gamey, fatty flavour.

When it was Will’s turn to tell his feelings, he was at an utter loss as to what to say. He looked around the table and for the first time, began to see what he’d never noticed before. It wasn’t the same clarity with which he saw red and gold, but sitting around the table, looking at his family unit, he understood that there was something different about them.

After sixteen years of only ever seeing the similarities, it was worrisome. He wanted his father’s reassurance, his mother’s unflappable calm, his sister’s light-hearted surety that all would turn out right in the end. Then, unbidden, his brain called to mind the image of Hannibal’s face before they parted, the expectation in his red gaze.

By necessity, Hannibal would be his confidant. He alone could hear Will’s concerns and apprehensions. Will pasted a smile on his face. “I’m eager to continue my training.”

Father grinned. “You see? The elders always make the right choice.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sleep didn’t come, no matter how long he waited for it. Will’s mind raced with all the questions he planned to ask Hannibal, all the memories of his visions, the almost sickening mixture of apprehension and excitement over what Hannibal would show him next, along with the lurking promise of pain and resultant fear.

In the next room over Beverly was trying to soothe Abigail’s fussing. After a time, Will got up and knocked on her door, gently so as not to disturb their parents. Beverly’s face appeared in the crack. “I apologise for disturbing your rest.”

Will waved her off even as he murmured his acceptance of her apology. “I can’t sleep anyway. I thought, maybe...maybe I could take Abigail tonight, and let you have some rest.”

“Will…” Beverly looked torn. Clearly tired, but uncertain if she should share her duty with him. “Busy day with the Receiver?”

Will didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. Beverly had been the best older sister he could have asked for--patient, kind, and understanding. Always there to lend a hand or a listening ear, whichever he needed.

“I just thought it might be nice to have some company.”

Beverly arched a wry brow as if to say _Really?_ When Will met her eye unwaveringly, she finally relented with a sigh. “I guess there’s no harm in it. If you really want to…”

Once Will reassured her, Beverly deflated in relief. Abigail fussed in her carrier down the hall and into his room. Will fished her out carefully. She wasn’t as delicate as some of the new children he’d cared for during his volunteer work, past that initial, helpless stage. She could support the weight of her own head and lift herself up from her belly on her arms, but she was still so very tiny.

Will held her tucked close, head in the crook of his arm and began to rock her back and forth. She began to calm almost at once. Mother chastised Beverly for showing too much affection, but how could anyone blame a new child for wanting to be held safe in their parent’s arms?

Where did that thought come from? It had to be something from one of the visions. Parents were there to provide comfort for small hurts, but beyond that, there wasn’t any real physical affection between them and their children. Within a few months of their placement with a family unit, new children were mostly able to walk for themselves, and then there was no reason for them to be held. 

Will knew this to be true. It was how he’d been raised, and his friends, and everyone he ever knew, but suddenly it filled him with sadness and revulsion.

“I’m sorry, Abigail,” he whispered, so his voice wouldn’t carry. He ran a hand over her fine hair, tracing out the faintest beginnings of red in it and smiled. “As long as you’re with us, I’ll hold you whenever I can.”

Abigail’s hands flailed out to bat at his face and then, for the first time ever, she smiled back at him! There was no way she could understand his promise, but Will imagined it was her acceptance of it. On a whim, he leaned in to touch his lips to her forehead, and once there, he lingered, marvelling in the softness and delicacy of her skin.

It occurred to Will then, out of nowhere, that Hannibal was a bit old not to have children of his own. He was certainly past the age when he would have been paired with a spouse. Maybe he had one, and a child or two. Who knew how large his dwelling was--or they could have been at work or lessons. 

Yet he somehow doubted that was the case, and now he had to wonder if it was by choice, or if it had something to do with his status as Receiver. Will had always known he’d had children of his own one day, something he’d looked forward to. Could he be that he was no longer destined for that life? The thought made his chest ache, and he held Abigail closer.

*

Will, Bedelia had told him. Number Seven.

Hannibal was largely unfamiliar with the names of the members of the neighbourhood, especially the children, but he’d known at once who she meant. As with Mischa, he’d seen the potential in the boy from the first moment Hannibal laid eyes on him. Even without the trademark ring of black around his vivid blue pupils, Hannibal could perceive a difference in Will. An emotionality and sensitivity that would allow him to absorb and process the visions.

It was the same sensitivity Mischa had possessed. A deep well-spring of concern and affection for everyone in her life and fierce curiosity that would not be tamed by medication or chastisement.

As Will grew from childhood into a young man, Hannibal watched the changes he underwent. The subtle differences others would overlook, a dominant personality railing against conformity and enforced politeness. A complex creative mind that simmered beneath the ever increasing doses of medication to keep him placid. Hannibal longed to free it, as he had with Mischa.

But Hannibal had lost Mischa, all the same, in the end. He would have to practice more caution with this child. Mischa was constantly asking for more memories, losing herself in them for hours, and Hannibal freely and gladly gave. There was no limit to what he would share with her and he did not discriminate between one sort of vision and another. 

Memories of riding a horse bareback through a field in springtime; walking along a busy riverbank in the drizzling rain, surrounded by colourful vendors selling their wares; the sensation of sliding between clean, flannel sheets after a long day and warm shower; days and days lost in the halls of museums staring on in awe at the works of the old masters…

Or, the pang of hunger in the depth of winter, when the crops had failed and that aching cold that could never be warmed; holding a loved one’s hand as they drew their last breath; a house left empty by an enemy occupation, echoing with the lives of those who’d once lived there, hovering over those things they’d been forced to leave behind; the battlefield after the victors had moved on, scattered with muddied bodies and trampled flags, the lingering scorched and bitter scent of gas and gunpowder.

Hannibal had never understood the difference between these memories, until he’d given them to Mischa. To him, each was interesting for the novelty of the experience provided. There was an aesthetic appeal to it all. The beauty of suffering. The exquisite pain of loss. Regret settling bitter and sharp just below his throat. He’d assumed Mischa would see it the same.

Now he knew better. 

Even when Will’s eyes began to sparkle after receiving his first memory. Even when he began to shake off the confines of politeness in his desire for more knowledge, Hannibal would proceed slowly.

It had been nearly a decade since anyone other than Bedelia had visited Hannibal’s home, but it was difficult to feel lonely when he had an entire world of memories to wander through, again and again. And when that failed him, there was always an entire Community to engage with however he chose, when the same rules that governed them did not apply to him. Garret had proved a fascinating experiment, and his work with Mason and Francis promised similarly stunning results.

All the same, he found himself looking forward to Will’s return, and was not disappointed when he arrived the second morning in a row, fairly vibrating with suppressed excitement.

Hannibal granted him a small smile, shown briefly in the curl of his lips. Subdued not by the pharmaceuticals but by the lifetimes of experience and wealth of emotion surging within. Early on in his own Receiving, Hannibal had learned to compartmentalise these things, and in doing so, had gained a different sort of control over his emotions. Will would learn it, in time.

Sleeplessness was painted clearly in the shadows under Will’s eyes and the pallor of his complexion. That was to be expected. Beneath it, and the hesitance in his movements, Will’s genuine enthusiasm shone through. He fidgeted, impatience and respectfulness warring within him as Hannibal showed him to the seats by the window.

“I’ve thought about my questions,” he finally blurted out.

“In a moment.” Hannibal left him there and went to his kitchen to prepare a pot of tea. Kettle on the stove eye, the leaves he’d grown and dried himself, mingled with fresh picked herbs from his private garden--flavours lost to the rest of the Community but preserved here, along with the memory of them. 

He took his time, going through familiar motions of taking down the china tea set, filling the jug with milk. There was no sugar in the Community, but Hannibal kept his own colony of bees and harvested their honey, and he quite preferred the substitution. What must Will think of these unfamiliar sounds, of the water coming to a simmer and the whistling of the kettle. He, as with the rest of the Community, was used to his food arriving whole and prepared at his table.

When Hannibal returned with the tray, Will couldn’t mask his curiosity. His eyes tracked Hannibal’s movement across the room, where he placed the tray on the side table. He presented Will with a cup and saucer, and Will handled it with extreme care, at a loss as to what to do with it. First, he touched the side of the cup and jerked his hand back in surprise at the temperature, almost dropping the whole thing.

“What is this?”

“There are some memories you can make for yourself, before I share them with you. These you will find in the books in this room, in the herbs and spices and vegetables I grow in my garden, in the music I will play for you.”

Will’s head tilted to the side in curious bemusement, words like so much nonsense, no doubt. All in good time.

“One particular pleasure of mine is tea.” Hannibal nodded to the cup in Will’s hand while he fixed his own, with only a dash of milk and honey to bring out the flavours of chamomile and lavender. “There are a variety of blends for you to sample, but today I believe the soothing, sedative qualities of this one are in order.”

Lifting the cup cautiously by the handle, Will inhaled deeply through his nose. His eyes fell closed, and Hannibal imaged he could see the wheels of his mind turning, trying to process and make sense of this new sensory input. “Carefully. Blow on it.” Will obeyed, the surface of the tea rippling with his breath, and he sipped of it.

Will let out a long exhale of surprise and pleasure, lips curving unrestrained in a smile. Hannibal licked his own lips, leaning in closer. “Try some milk.” Will presented his cup to Hannibal for it to be added. “And honey.” Hannibal dipped it from jar to cup on a silver spoon, watching Will watch the way it drizzled golden in the light. He darted out a finger to catch some on the tip and brought it to his mouth, moaning with unfettered delight. His innocence was captivating.

“It’s so much better.”

“What’s that?” Hannibal asked.

“The flavours,” Will said. “I had thought--that memory, of the feast, I had thought I understood, but this is even better. More vivid.”

“Yes,” Hannibal agreed, pleased. “The more memories I give you of a specific thing, the stronger the sensation of its qualities. Some things, however, are never quite the same in memory as they are in the immediacy of experience.”

Will took another sip, greedily, too much too soon. He hissed in pain at his burned tongue. Hannibal could recall with perfect clarity what it had been like, to experience real pain for the first time in his life. This small pain was nothing compared to what he would eventually have to share with Will, but it was the price one paid for Receiving memories. 

However, it was a serviceable, if somewhat clumsy, segue into the discussion that needed to take place between them. “Will.” Hannibal sat aside his cup and saucer and folded his hands in his lap. Will eyed him questioningly over the rim of his cup, already taking another, cautious sip. 

“The memories I shared with you yesterday don’t begin to scratch the surface of what you have to learn. When I became Receiver, the Giver of Memories was quite advanced in age, approaching his Release. He rushed through the transference of memories, and it was extremely difficult and painful at times. For years afterwards, I was left to sort through the jumbled mess he’d left behind with me.”

The boy squirmed. His upbringing told him to apologise to Hannibal for the discomfort this had caused him, but he must have remembered Hannibal’s admonishment to apologise only when he meant it. For the first time in his life, Will had to consider if he honestly felt regret over that thing for which he was apologising. At last, he said, “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Yes, it was unpleasant,” Hannibal agreed. “Over time, however, I learned to organise the memories in a precise arrangement in my mind. By isolating each one, I could draw on those I needed, and shut out those I preferred not to dwell upon. As you and I have a great deal more time, I can teach you this method. While there will be some inescapable pain, you can learn to compartmentalise it quite effectively.”

Will swallowed his mouthful with an audible sound, eyes wide. “How bad is it?” he asked. Despite his obvious fear, Will was resolute. Whether he knew it for himself yet, or not, the boy had a great reservoir of strength waiting to be tapped.

“As before, you have no context for it.” Hannibal stood, hand running along the plush leather of his chair as he made his way to stand before the window. “Humankind was, for several thousands of years, quite adept at divining new methods of torture. Inflicting the most severe pain possible so as to punish, or extract information, or sometimes for their own pleasure at seeing another suffer.”

Horror etched across Will’s face at the mere suggestion, though of course he still could not truly comprehend what Hannibal was telling him. “These are memories you must bear.”

“But _why_? You told me why we have weather control, but you never explained why no one in the Community remembers snow. Or why you and I _do_. So why do I have to remember it if it doesn’t exist anymore? Why does anyone?”

“Several generations back, the founders of the Community saw the condition of the world they lived in--the pain and misery, war and pollution and cruelty--and that was when they decided that the formation of the Community was the only way forward. They eliminated adversity and they eliminated our differences, and then they eliminated our memories, in all save the Receiver.” 

“As to why…” Hannibal considered his words, a collection of misremembered quotes, until he at last landed on the original version. “‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’”

Will’s lips flattened mutinously, though he held his tongue. It amused Hannibal, and he said, indulgent of Will’s mood, “You’ll come to understand it better over time. Have another drink of your tea.”

“What is it?” Will asked, after another, longer swallow.

Hannibal beckoned for Will’s tea cup and set it aside with a clink. “Here,” he said, and touched his hand to Will’s temple. Hannibal closed his eyes, focussing on the memory he wished to give. Down one of a hundred wandering hallways in his mind to the door he sought.

This one opened onto the Plateau de Valensole, the lavender in full, glorious bloom. The fragrance was delightfully overwhelming. Shades of blue and violet contrasted with the stark orange of the rising sun catching the clouds on fire. There were a thousand other sunrises in his memories, but this one stuck out in his mind as the first time he’d seen the colour purple. Now it would be Will’s first memory of the colour, as well.

Will’s awe flowed through the connection between them, along with a swelling of joy Hannibal hadn’t felt since Mischa. As Will absorbed the memory for himself, it grew dull for Hannibal. Though still present, it was like a poor reproduction of a fine piece of art. 

Along with the memory came the concept of France and where it had once existed on the map of the world, the ghost of the language, the harvesting of the crop and the fragrant bundles pressed close under his nose. And the flavour, now combined with Will’s own physical experience of it.

It was a calming memory, and Will was slow to blink his eyes open once Hannibal ended the transference. Combined with the effects of the tea, it had an overall soporific effect. Will’s eyes drooped, thick lashes fanning black against the bags under his eyes when he blinked for a drawn out moment. “I think,” Hannibal said, “a nap is in order, before we continue.”

“Nap?” Will stared at him, more alert now. A queer smile crossed his face. “We stop napping when we become Fives.”

“There is no rule against it,” Hannibal said.

“No, but…”

“And even if there were, there are no cameras watching you here, Will.”

Will drew a leg up under himself and then caught himself and straightened up his posture, both feet on the floor. “Still…” Hannibal could imagine at this moment Will was cataloguing all the occasions on which he’d wished to be free of the cameras, and what he’d have liked to have done. Perhaps someday Will would trust him enough to share those thoughts with Hannibal.

“Come now.” Hannibal took Will’s hand in his own, pulling him to his feet. “It’s clear you didn’t sleep well last night, and who could blame you? I can help with that.”

Hannibal’s bedroom was up the stairs and through another of the three doors. There were things he could request that Bedelia could procure through trade. He didn't know the particulars, but he had inferred there must be somewhere beyond the boundaries of the Community where people still lived as once they had. Fabrics, furnishings, little trinkets and, when there was something he could not grow with the seeds in his collection, some food he recalled from a memory.

His bedroom was largely composed of such items. Paintings from ancient cultures, decorative boxes filled with jewels he couldn't wear outside the walls of the house, ornamental rugs. Antique chests and dressers in warm oak. A large four poster bed that took up most of the room, dressed in satin sheets and velvet blankets, and feathered pillows.

Will stared around them in wonder, fingers trailing absently along the papered walls. Hannibal allowed his curiosity for a moment, standing back as Will showed uncharacteristic rudeness by lifting the lids of jewellery boxes and examined delicate blown glass figurines scattered over the dresser top. Rifling through another's belongings was unheard of in the Community. Already Will must have felt a growing ease in Hannibal's presence.

“Your...home,” Will said, testing the word and Hannibal’s reaction to it. He nodded for Will to continue. “The one in memory you shared with me…”

“Yes?” Hannibal prompted. He turned down the sheets and fluffed the pillow, and Will took the invitation, sitting down on the mattress. He’d opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again in surprise, bouncing a few times before he remembered himself.

“It’s different from the dwellings--not because of what’s in it…” Clearly the boy was thinking his way around to the idea of it.

“Generally speaking, a home and a dwelling serve the same purpose,” Hannibal said. “Protection from the elements, a place of one’s own to store one’s belongings, where family gathers.”

“But what family meant to those people.” Will leaned forward, likely unconscious of the way his body strained as if in search of some elusive thought. “They weren’t assigned to one another. They chose one another, they kept their own young. They decorated their homes in memories--like yours.”

“The founders sacrificed a great deal for security,” Hannibal said. “Family and home, in particular, held such a diversity of meaning even before the establishment of the Community, I have found my understanding of them to be ephemeral at best, even with all the memories I hold.”

“Do you have a family here?” Will asked.

Hannibal’s eyes fell closed briefly and he shook his head. “Not any more, though it was not by choice. Fate and circumstance conspired against it.”

“I’m sorry to have brought it up.”

“You have no cause for apologies, Will. In time you’ll come to understand that there is nothing wrong with memories that cause us pain or sadness. All things in moderation. However for now,” Hannibal gestured for him to lie back, “rest.”

Will laid back and was hesitant to close his eyes. Even after, a furrow remained between his brows. Hannibal brushed his thumb there, and pressed his palm more firmly against the curve of his cheek. He brought to mind a peaceful memory of a Burmese monastery. 

Sunlight cutting through the clouds and lighting up the valley where the ancient building nestled. The monks in their vibrant maroon robes moving silently through the open walkways or settled in dark halls for meditation. Candlelight flickering, the burbling water in the stream, and distant chimes. Soft susurrations of feet on stone, wind through the tree branches, the monks inhalations and exhalations. Winding through it all the heady fragrance of incense weaving shapes on the air. The rhythmic chanting _om_ carried Will off to sleep.

Hannibal watched him for a long while, allowing the memory to drag on as a faint whisper between them as Will slipped deeper and deeper into sleep. No doubt he’d suffered for some time from mediocre sleep. Even before he’d received a memory from Hannibal, Will had been open to emotions others in their Community could not begin to fathom. His subconscious likely took advantage of sleep to interpret such input in the form of dreams Will forced himself to suppress.

Mischa had been much the same way, but their familial connection had garnered a level of comfort between them that he did not yet enjoy with Will, and likely wouldn’t for some time. The time would come when he would confide his darker secrets with Hannibal, and if the years had taught him anything, it was patience.

*

Will had worried at first that he would be bored and miserable, going straight from his dwelling to Hannibal’s and back again each day, but by the end of the first week, he was actually disappointed for recreation time. By the end of the second week, he no longer knew how to behave around the others. While the children and young adults rushed from their dwellings to join up with one another, Will found himself wishing to return to Hannibal’s home. 

Like the homes Hannibal had shown him in memories, it was the feeling he got from being inside Hannibal’s home more than anything easily quantifiable that drew him back there. Being surrounded by the books and belongings, the fresh cut flowers from Hannibal’s garden, and the growing catalogue of colours Will picked out in the paintings on the walls--it filled him with a sense of comfort and peace. 

Walking through the front door each day, a weight lifted from his shoulders. It was so easy within Hannibal’s walls. No rules and expectations, only Hannibal, who never judged Will for his showing of emotions or his impertinent questions, but rather welcomed them. 

With Hannibal’s fingers against his cheek, Will wandered through the perfume district in a city of metal and glass. He woke in the rain spattered predawn in a city of golden lights and a grand silver tower, the scent of freshly baked croissants that flaked apart in his fingers and tasted of delicate melting butter on the tongue. Hannibal’s voice guided him through wandering forest paths where the light cast a rainbow through the mist of a grand waterfall. And a handful more memories of fine fabrics, delicious foods, and breath-taking sights.

Then, entering his own dwelling at the end of the evening, that weight settle back, heavier each day it seemed, as he reined in his frustrations and fears. The burgeoning emotion he could not name when he took Abigail into his arms each night at bedtime and brushed back her fine hair to lay his lips on her forehead. Countered by the suffocating sadness when he gave her back in the mornings, knowing Beverly was preparing her to go live with some stranger next year. It wasn’t right, and Hannibal was the only one who understood that.

How was he supposed to enjoy himself amongst his fellow Sixteens? Trailing behind them on his bike as they rode to the green, chattering about their training. There was nothing he could tell them, even if he wanted to--even if he could figure out how to frame it in a way they’d understand, so he kept silent.

Their happiness was but a cheap imitation of what Will had experienced through others memories, in only a couple weeks. He watched them with mingled pity, regret, and envy. It might have been a shallow happiness, but at least they were capable of feeling it without knowing what they were truly missing and what they would never really feel.

Molly was eager to tell them about her time with the Seniors. Will tried to pay attention--as a good friend, Molly deserved nothing less--but his attention kept wandering to all the new colours he could see. Molly’s shining golden brown hair, the stunning contrast of the yellow sun against the blue sky, Freddie’s fiery curls flickering between orange and red. He’d never liked her, but it was still shocking, the immediate reaction he had to seeing her now. Something kicking over in his stomach and his mind providing the word: hatred.

Freddie caught him staring and her eyes narrowed in speculation. Will forced his attention back to his friends, where Jimmy was now regaling them with a story of mixed up petri dishes and the ensuing “really very small” explosion that explained his singed eyebrows. No one seemed to notice that Will’s laughter was forced.

Similarly, no one noticed when they hurried off to join a game of baseball and Will slipped away. He hadn’t thought it through, but he wasn’t surprised we he found the path he’d chosen took him to the gardens. As he parked his bike, he half expected the speaker to come on and remind everyone very politely that ALL SIXTEENS WERE MEANT TO BE ON THE GREEN FOR RECREATION TIME. But though Will had the sensation he was being watched, the gardens were still and silent, and no one spoke in protest when Will knocked on Hannibal’s door.

There was no surprise on Hannibal’s face when he answered the door, only a gentle, honest smile. Of course, who else would be knocking on his door? In the past two weeks, Hannibal had never received a visitor nor a call. His life seemed a rather solitary one.

“Will, I was just about to have tea in my garden. Would you care to join me?”

Will nodded in gratitude. All his stress left him on a sigh when Hannibal closed the front door behind him. “Thank you. I was supposed to be at recreation time, but all the others just seemed so…” there was no way he could put it that wasn’t dreadfully rude, but then Hannibal didn’t need him to complete the thought to understand.

“There is a reason I tend to keep to myself,” he said with a wry quirk to his lips.

Will followed him through the familiar study area, and into the kitchen. He’d only seen it so far through the doorway in passing, but as with the other rooms of Hannibal’s home, it was quite different from his own dwelling. Shining silver refrigerator and stovetop, some patterned stone countertop, small appliances which Will had no name for and could only wonder at their purposes.

Hannibal placed a second saucer and cup on the tray, dainty white china decorated in painstakingly painted violets and ivy. He carried the tray with him through the open door to the backyard. It was kept separate from the rest of the garden by a high wall, and Will gasped at the sight of it.

Flowers grew rampant in the beds, brilliant yellow, orange and red ruffles, pale blue stars that climbed the wall, drooping cups of pastel pinks and purples, yellow blooms larger than Will’s head, and dozens of other varieties. White five pointed stars dripped from a bush near the door, smelling heavenly sweet. Will bent his head to breath of them more deeply and when he stood caught Hannibal watching him with a strange expression.

There was a wrought iron table and chairs in the shade of a strange tree. It’s branches hung so low they brushed the ground in places, and fuzzy white seeds soft against Will’s hand when he brushed them aside like a curtain and held it back for Hannibal to proceed.

“What’s the tea today?” Will didn’t bother to hide his eager curiosity. Each afternoon of the past several days, Hannibal had presented him with a new blend to try, floral and delicate, or herbaceous and astringent. Hannibal told him one day he’d be able to identify every flavour, but it seemed impossible when there were so many.

“Masala chai. A blend of rather bold spices and black tea. From what I’ve observed of your reaction to the teas you’ve sampled thus far, I believe you’ll enjoy it.”

Will breathed deeply, a mingling of scents that immediately called to mind the very first memory Hannibal gave him. His eyes fluttered shut in pleasure as he brought it more vividly to the forefront of his mind. The spicey sweet flavour of the desserts and mulled wine. Cinnamon and cloves and ginger, and more, a complexity he’d never dreamed of.

“Scent is a powerful psychological trigger of our memories. The two are inextricably bound. As I share more memories with you, you will find yourself transported by the scent of recently trimmed grass, or the rubber on hot pavement, to an entirely different place and time. For me, the scent of chai recalls the flickering fans in the stale air of a Mumbai café, that oppressive heat and the sweat on my upper lip, clothing clinging to my skin, and the sting of too much cardamom in the blend.”

It didn’t sound like a particularly fond memory, yet Hannibal smiled as he spoke, eyes moving beneath his lids as he experienced the memory anew. When he opened them again, he focussed on Will expectantly. Will lifted his cup in salute and brought it to his lips. Still hot, almost on the edge of pain, but the flavours melded on his palate, rich and creamy and utterly delightful.

“You’re right,” he said, with his own shy grin. “I think this is my favourite so far.”

“Would you like a memory to go with it?” Hannibal asked, hand half extended to touch, but Will shook his head.

“I think I’d like to keep my memory of it to myself for a while, if that’s alright.” He was afraid it might offend Hannibal to turn down the offer of a memory. Instead, Hannibal fairly radiated approval at Will’s words, as if he’d just passed some test.

“Tell me about your memory of it?” Will asked, after a moment of silence fell between them.

“I’ve told you that my Giver was much older than myself, and time was of the essence. I didn’t enjoy many of the pleasures I now share with you for some time after I became the Receiver. The first time I tasted Masala chai on my own tongue was many years after I experienced the memory of it.”

Will settled in, giving Hannibal his full attention as a gentle ocean breeze wafted through the branches of the tree. In his mind’s eye he could imagine a younger Hannibal, alone in his home, attempting to recreate the things he’d only ever known through the memories of others. How he’d learned to cultivate this garden from nothing more than dried seeds, to craft the clothing he wore from raw materials, how he’d followed recipes in books only he possessed, and did this all for years until he became skilled at each thing he tried.

As he considered this, his respect for Hannibal grew, as did his gratitude that Will wouldn’t be left to his own devices. Hannibal would be with him each step of the way as he settled into his new role. How lonely it must have been for Hannibal all these years with no one to share this with. The thought settled thick in the back of Will’s throat, and he swallowed it down with another mouthful of the chai.

Will stayed until the sun was burning orange low on the horizon and the chimes sounded for the end of the recreation period. Even then, he was reluctant to leave, but as Hannibal saw him to the door, he said, “You’re welcome here whenever you please, Will,” and that reassurance kept him smiling all the way to his dwelling.

*

Sunday was a day of rest, when there was no official schedule of events. Citizens could study or work if they pleased, or engage in unorganised recreation, or visit the Storyteller. Over breakfast Beverly shared her plans to meet up with some of her coworkers for a picnic at the beach, and Father had plans to catch up on some of his files from work. 

Will couldn’t help but notice the lines of fatigue around Mother’s eyes or the strain in her smile as she shared her plans to rest quietly. His concern was mirrored on Father’s face, which only deepened his own.

“And you, Will?” Mother asked, quick as ever to distract attention from herself.

“I thought I might visit Hannibal.”

“Will.” His mother had a way of expressing her disapproval in the single syllable of his name. “Don’t you think the Receiver would prefer a day to himself.”

Mother had often told him he was perceptive, a sentiment Hannibal had expressed as well. He could reasonably believe that Hannibal had been sincere when he’d told Will to visit whenever, but when he told this to his mother, she was firm in her insistence that he leave Hannibal be.

Until that moment, Will hadn’t given much consideration to the fact that he could lie. Of course he used that every morning when he was meant to share his dreams, but that was more in an effort to follow the rules than to deceive. Now, for the first time, he lied because he wanted to, and because he could.

“Yes, Mother,” he said, bowing his head in contrition. “Maybe I’ll see what Jimmy and Molly and Brian are doing today.”

On his way to the gardens he took a detour down some of the residential streets, just in case his parents or Beverly saw him. There were some Twelves and Thirteens gathered in a front yard playing badminton and a group of younger children taking turns on the swings in the park. His friends were carrying kayaks towards the pond, and once Will would have jumped at the chance to join them on the water. Today he pedalled on towards the gardens.

Oddly enough, Freddie was in the gardens as well. Will spotted her hair as he approached, disappearing into the high hedges of the maze. Now that he was able to spot the differences in colour, Freddie’s hair stood out all the more. There were very few people in the neighbourhood with the same shade, most possessing yellow, brown, or black hair, threaded with white as they approached their Senior years.

Will preferred to spend as little time as possible thinking about Freddie, and so he pushed her out of mind and hurried to Hannibal’s corner of the garden. Hannibal was dressed more casually than Will was accustomed to seeing him, when he opened his door. The red sweater showed off the hollow of his neck and for some reason it held Will’s attention. Perhaps it was the colour, when all the residents of the Community wore plain shades of black and white.

“I’m really not bothering you?” Will asked, wandering into the study. 

“I assure you your presence is most welcome,” Hannibal answered. “You cannot allow the inhibitions of others influence your perception. I want you to be here. You want to be here. That is all that matters.”

Heat flooded Will’s cheeks at the words of reassurance. He ducked his head to hide his blush and walked further into the dark of the room. The curtains were closed, and he preferred the room this way, dipped in shadow, illuminated only by the jewelled light of the stained glass desk lamps.

As he walked, he ran his hand absently along the spines of the books, noting the difference in textures of various covers and print. “You may take them down. They’re as much yours as they are mine, now.”

Even with Hannibal’s permission, Will was frozen with indecision. There were literally hundreds to choose from. “I’d have no idea where to start.”

Hannibal stepped closer, enough for Will to feel the heat of his body and the brush of his jacket when Hannibal lifted an arm to reach past him for a shelf just above eye level. “Might I suggest Huxley.” He selected blue volume, with Brave New World picked out in white lettering. “Go on and have a look while I prepare us something to eat.”

Will took the book with him to the chair he’d already begun to think of as his own. There was just enough light to read by. With the comforting sounds of Hannibal tinkering around in the kitchen, he settled in and opened the volume.

The pages were papery thin and delicate to his touch, speaking of the age of the book. Will handled it carefully as flipped past the title page. Almost at once, Will began to understand why Hannibal had suggested this book. Though the terminology was different, he could see the parallels between the Hatchery and the Birthing Centre. Only in Huxley’s world there were no Birth Mothers, only stored ovaries. 

As Will continued onward, the bile rose up sick in the back of his throat and tears stung his eyes at the thought that right now someone might be impregnating Margot, and how they planned to use her up until her body could give no more, then essentially throw her away.

He was thankful when, sometime later, Hannibal came to interrupt him. “Perhaps I should have started you off on something lighter,” he observed.

Will straightened up and cleared his throat. “How do you stand it, Hannibal? How can you live here, knowing what you do?”

Hannibal reached across the space between them to lay a hand over Will’s. “This is, unfortunately, only the beginning. Not all the pain you’ll experience will be physical.”

Will turned his hand under Hannibal’s, until they were pressed palm to palm. He hadn’t held anyone’s hand in this manner since his childhood, but as he’d grown used to Hannibal’s hand on his face, so too had he grown to crave the comfort in his more casual touches. Hannibal was free with physical affection in a way Will hadn’t even known existed until they’d met, and he found he liked it.

“Put that book aside. There are far too many things I must share with you for it to make sense. Later I’ll pick out another for you,” Hannibal said, squeezing his hand once before released it and standing. “For now, I’ve made brunch.”

Eggs were a staple of the breakfast table, almost exclusively in the form of an omelet. Will had never seen them like this before, poached, Hannibal told him. “Served atop a buttermilk biscuit with a fried green tomato and crab cake, and a spicy remoulade, with a side of home fries. And of course mimosas.” 

This Hannibal said presenting Will with a glass flute filled with pale orange liquid that fizzed in the back of his throat when he took a sip. His nose twitched and he swiped with the back of his hand before taking another, longer drink. It was a strange blend of sugary sweetness with a crisp, bitter aftertaste, and the delightful tickling bubbles.

“I’m afraid the ingredients aren’t as fresh as I’d like, but I must make do with what I have.”

Will made an embarrassing moaning noise around his first mouthful of the meal. “This is…” he couldn’t think of a word to properly describe it. Delicious didn’t quite do it justice. Since beginning his training under Hannibal, Will’s vocabulary had begun to fail him at an alarming rate. He took another bite and followed it with a mouthful of the mimosa. “Will you teach me how to cook, too?”

Hannibal spared him an indulgent smile. “I will gladly train you in any discipline you desire. In fact, there is something in particular I am eager to share with you, but in order for you to fully appreciate it--indeed, for you to fully appreciate any of the memories and experiences I share with you--there is something you must first do.”

“Of course,” Will agreed readily. Hannibal had warned him of pain, but so far everything he’d shared with Will had been wonderful. He trusted that whatever it was that Hannibal planned to ask of him, it was in his best interest. “Whatever you say.”

There was something strange in Hannibal’s expression, at Will’s words. Something he’d never seen before and didn’t comprehend. Hannibal poured some more champagne into Will’s glass. “The medication you take each morning is a blend of absentium for purpose of eradicating strong emotions, and libidonese as a form of chemical castration.”

“I know they’re to control the Stirrings, but I still feel things,” Will protested. He took another long swallow from his flute. From his memories of drinking wine, Will knew the lightheadedness he was experiencing was attributed to intoxication, and it was an entirely novel experience that made him drink more, faster, chasing the sensation.

“Your ability to See Beyond had made you far more resistant to the effects of the absentium. No doubt you’ve had your dosage adjusted multiple times.”

Will could clearly remember the looks his parents had shared, time and again, at the telling of their feelings. How many times he’d been sent to medical, and how quickly thereafter it had dulled the edges of his mind, much like the alcohol did now. Will nudged his glass away.

“You want me to stop taking them.”

Hannibal dipped his head. “A gradual weaning would be preferable, however you do not have that luxury. It will be unpleasant, to say the least.”

“If it’s necessary for me to receive the memories, then why don’t the rules require me to stop taking them?”

“The Overseer makes the rules, but she can’t fully comprehend what it is we do,” Hannibal said. “Her primary concern is the continued survival of the Community, whatever the cost.”

That was disdain that Will read in Hannibal’s brow and the tone of his voice, a chilly sort of superiority. There was a history between Hannibal and the Overseer that Will knew nothing about, and now he found himself intrigued and something else. Some emotion he’d felt only a few times before in his life, but never had a name for, when he saw someone with something he wanted.

“It sounds like you don’t agree with that,” he said.

“In the end, it doesn’t matter whether I agree with her or not,” Hannibal said, shrugging one shoulder. “It is the way things are.”

Will wanted to protest that someone would notice the changes in him, if he were to stop taking his medication, but the truth was, everyone was all too happy to ignore anything that didn’t fit in. They’d been conditioned all their lives to ignore differences, and now that Will could lie, it was only too easy to defer their attention.

He shook his head and snorted. “All my life I’ve felt like there was something missing, and no one else seemed to notice or care.”

“I’ve noticed,” Hannibal assured him, fingers brushing lightly across the back of his hand, tickling the fine hairs there. “I care, Will.”

This conversation had sparked far too many unfamiliar, unnameable emotions in Will, and he’d seen even more cross Hannibal’s face. Perhaps he’d begin to be able to understand them once he’d stopped taking his medication. Like the charge of electricity up his arm or the dark shadows in Hannibal’s gaze.

“Alright, I’ll do it.”


	3. Chapter 3

All throughout the evening, Will reflected on what it was he’d agreed to do. Sitting at the dinner table with his family, listening as they discussed their feelings, was quickly becoming a trial. As he made his own obfuscations about what he’d felt throughout the course of the day, he reminded himself of Hannibal’s interest in his true thoughts and emotions.

When Will had agreed to go off his medication, he’d felt Hannibal’s radiant pride and approval as a physical sensation. Warmer than any touch his parents had ever bestowed on him, and Will basked in it.   
It carried him through the ache that was caring for Abigail throughout the night. It was with him the next morning when he woke and, instead of placing his hand over the lancet, he held an apple there instead. 

He waited for the familiar hiss of the medication being distributed before he rose and began to move about his daily routine. Thanks to memories Hannibal had given him, Will had been able to construct a carrier for Abigail out of an old sweater. He’d sling it over one shoulder and tuck her close while he made his bed, brushed his teeth, and laid out his clothing. 

She liked to shower with him, held in his arms and batting at the water that ran in streams from the ends of his hair down his neck and chest. Will kept her sheltered from the water, careful when he washed her hair and fragile little body. Beverly had protested that it was unnecessary for him to bathe her, that it would be done at the New Child centre, but Will didn’t mind. It filled him with a rare calm.

After, Abigail played with her comfort object on his bed while Will dressed, and together they went down to breakfast. He’d thought the change would be more gradual when going off his medication, but already he was beginning to notice a difference. For one thing, he could remember his dreams.

Last night he’d walked along a snowy path with Hannibal pointing out to him the names for all the different trees, and there were animals like Abigail’s comfort animal, only they were real. One in particular had great boney growths coming from its head, and it stared at them for a long while, breath steaming in the cold air, the only sound the gentle snowfall.

Will wanted to know more, and made a mental note to ask Hannibal if such a thing truly existed or if it was simply his imagination. Hannibal had begun to teach him how to order his thoughts in such a way so that he could draw upon any memory with ease and clarity, and certainly this creature was not in any memory he’d seen so far. But perhaps the idea of its existence had lingered at the edge of one of them.

He was distracted from these thoughts by an altogether new and fascinating physical sensation. A sort of low grade hum had taken up residence under his skin as he showered, and it only grew worse as he went down the stairs, aware of every shift in fabric against his skin. The ride to Hannibal’s home was almost unbearable, the vibrations of the bike seat between his thighs, thrumming through the handlebars into his palms.

Will could barely wait to ask Hannibal about it all. He left his bike leaned against the wall outside Hannibal’s home instead of storing it properly, and let himself in, locking the door behind him. “Hannibal!” he called, throwing his jacket over the railing as he hurried down the stairs, unmindful of the way it dropped to the floor as he passed.

“In the kitchen,” came the response, and Will followed it, smiling. Of course Hannibal was in the kitchen. It had to be his favourite place. 

Hannibal looked up from where he was cutting some fragrant herb, and Will was momentarily caught speechless by his longer fingers wrapped around the knife, and the way his hair fell across his forehead, and how his eyes glowed warm brown in the sunlight.

Will shifted, hands wrapped around the edge of the counter, leaning closer without really thinking about it. When he caught himself, he lowered his head in embarrassment, covering for it by taking a deep breath of the herb on the cutting board. 

“Will?” And oh, yes, Hannibal had been saying something, but Will was too caught up in staring at him to really hear it.

“Sorry,” he said, cheeks on fire.

“It’s quite alright,” Hannibal said, and Will looked up to see him smiling, more broadly than Will could ever recall seeing on him. His eyes fixated on the quirk at the corner of Hannibal’s lips and the line of sharp teeth. “I remember what it was like, going off my medication.”

“It’s very...distracting,” Will said. Watching the way Hannibal’s muscles moved beneath his thin button-down shirt, there was that pulsing electricity coursing through Will again, tingling in his penis. He’d never given it much thought, beyond using the bathroom and cleaning, but now it was all he could really concentrate on.

“Yes,” Hannibal agreed with a chuckle. He picked up one of the slivers of herb and wrapped it around a small piece of cheese and tomato. “I asked if you’d like a taste? It needs to marinate in the dressing before lunch, but it is still quite enjoyable.” He extended his hand, fingers pinched around the morsel, and nudged it against Will’s lips.

Will was more aware of the drag of Hannibal’s flesh against his own than the actual flavour of the food. Though he’d taken to pressing his lips against Abigail’s skin all the time, it had never felt like this. How had he never realised how sensitive his lips were? Why now they seemed to possess thousands of nerve endings, all firing straight to his groin. He couldn’t say if it was entirely pleasant or not, but it was new.

“Good,” Will said, belatedly, in the charged silence after he’d chewed and swallowed.

Hannibal’s smirk was far too knowing. “You seemed in quite the hurry to find me a moment ago. Was there something you wished to ask?”

“Oh, um, yeah.” Will tore his gaze from Hannibal’s face. “There was an animal in my dream last night, like Abigail’s comfort object.”

“Is that so?” There was honest intrigue in Hannibal’s voice. “Tell me about this creature.”

Will described Abigail’s stuffed animal, and then the one in his dream, as Hannibal led the way back to their chairs in the living area. “That sounds like a stag,” Hannibal said. Will barely heard the words, focussed instead on the way Hannibal’s finger pressed to his lips in thought. “The male version of the deer that is Abigail’s comfort object. Would you care to see?”

“It’s real, then?” Will asked, eager. If Abigail’s deer was real, could that meant his dog was real, too?

In answer, Hannibal brought his hands up to cup Will’s cheeks. His touch was gentle and by now familiar, and more than that, sparked warmth along his scalp. Will closed his eyes and sank into the memory Hannibal wished to share with him.

Autumn, a voice provided. That voice which now sounded like Hannibal whispering in his ear, only far more intimate. Will was on the porch of a log cabin, opened to the forest. The trees were aflame with leaves in every shade of red, orange, and yellow, and drifted brown to the forest floor. A crisp, cool wind rustled through the wood, carrying the sweet scent of wet bark and decay.

Will wrapped himself up in his thick woolen sweater, caught for a moment by the sensation of it dragging back and forth across his cheek, scratchy and warm. There was a feeling of nostalgia. This memory was of someone who was all alone in the world, with only the animals inhabiting the forest for company.

And speaking of those animals, as Will scanned the woods with his eyes, he became aware of a slew of them. Small chittering creatures dashing across the ground and skittering up the sides of the trees. Squirrels. Wild turkeys calling out in the distance, and a tiny fox the colour of Freddie’s hair dashing through the undergrowth. 

Then, at last, Will spotted the stag. A great distance away, through the low-hanging leaves of the golden elm and between the stark white bark of the birch, he stood at attention, ears quirked to pick up the slightest sound.

“He’s just as I imagined,” Will murmured, barely moving his lips as he spoke, worried he might frighten it away.

“Ancient humans hunted the deer for their meat and hide,” Hannibal explained, and as he did, the memory filled in for Will. The taste of venison, sharp and gamey. The feel of the tanned hide smooth and soft against his skin. The antlers both functional and decorative on the walls and chandeliers and furniture.

With that knowledge came the inescapable notion of death. It was followed by a wave of sadness that swept through Will like a physical sensation. He couldn’t fully process it in that moment, but it almost knocked him off his feet, sent him reeling, grabbing the railing of the porch for stability.

Is this what Hannibal meant by pain? Because it was painful, this hollow sensation in his chest. A feeling of loss that could only be described by anguish that brought stinging tears to his eyes. Things died. They ended, never to be seen or touched or spoken to again.

“Please, stop!” Will cried out, flinging his hand out to push Hannibal away. He opened his eyes to the stark light of the sun pouring through Hannibal’s window, but all he could still see was that dying forest and the knowledge that the person he’d been, watching that stag, was going to hunt and kill it.

“Forgive me,” Hannibal said. “I had not considered the emotional aspect of that memory.”

Will brought his hands to his face, startled when they came back wet. Someone his age crying was unheard of, and yet he could not stop. The slow trickle of tears threatened to give way to great heaving sobs, and Hannibal touched his shoulder, then up the back of his neck, bare skin on bare skin.

“Let me show you something different,” he said and Will gave in at once, blindly trusting and desperate for something to make this aching sadness stop.

It was the lush, verdant springtime and he was running through a field of daisies and black-eyed susans, chasing something. For a moment all Will really knew was the warm sunlight and the fluttering breeze rifling through his hair, and it lifted away the sadness with each stride. But then he saw what it was he was chasing and Will let out a burst of unfettered laughter.

This creature was called a Golden Retriever, and it was a breed of dog. When Will caught it, the long fur was silky between his fingers, copper and gold in the light, and he pressed his face into the animal’s coat. This boy held such emotion for her, and she gave it in return. She would follow him anywhere, protect him from any threat, he was hers as surely as she was his.

Will indulged her slobbering tongue against his cheek, the wet-cold nudge of her nose in his throat, the nipping at his heels when it was her turn to chase him. He stayed in the memory until he was breathless from the running and the joy, and when he opened his eyes in Hannibal’s living room, his face hurt from smiling so hard for so long.

He wanted to ask why. Again, always, why couldn’t they have these things. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe the reasons Hannibal gave him, it was that they weren’t good enough. It wasn’t a trade he’d have ever willingly made, to give up all these beautiful, wonderful things for the security the Community provided.

Instead, Will simply said, “Thank you,” eyes fluttering closed in pleasure and contentment when Hannibal drew his thumb along the curve of his cheekbone in response. And, “Another?”

Later over lunch, however, Will couldn’t ignore the memory any longer. It lurked at the edges of his mind, clouding dark over the brighter, happier memories Hannibal had shared with him, making the food settle like bricks in his stomach. He pushed his bowl of salad away and took a long drink of water.

“Hannibal, why did they kill those animals?”

Hannibal sighed and set his fork aside. “Some men hunted as a means of survival, whether for food or trade. Others killed for sport.” At Will’s sound of disgust, he said, “I did warn you of mankind’s tendency towards cruelty.”

“But in that memory, it wasn’t just the animals who died,” Will continued, fingering the wood grain of the kitchen table. “That person’s family was gone.”

“Death is the unavoidable consequence of living,” Hannibal said simply.

Will digested this information as Hannibal began to clean up the dishes. Suddenly he understood what was meant by Loss. Miriam hadn’t merely been whisked away to Elsewhere by the water, she’d died. And that red Will had seen on Garret’s clothing, that was Louise’s blood. Wherever the Seniors were sent, whatever peace and contentment they found Elsewhere wouldn’t last forever. They too would die. He would die one day, and Hannibal.

“I feel sick.” It was all he could think about now, the idea that Beverly and Molly and his parents--everyone he cared for--would someday cease to exist. They’d never smile again, or feel the wind on their cheeks as they rode their bike, or eat another apple, or see the full moon.

Hannibal’s hand was on his back and Will realised he was breathing too hard and fast, his vision going spotty white. Hannibal’s skin was warm through the layer of Will’s shirt and he stroked back and forth gently. His voice was calming when he said, “Breathe, Will.”

“Doesn’t it affect you at all?” Will asked.

“I’ve had more time to process it,” Hannibal said. He crouched at Will’s side, hand trailing up the back of his neck into his hair. 

Will leaned into the touch, distracted from his growing panic by that new electric sensation it triggered. He let out a shuddery breath. “So it gets easier?”

“In the interest of honesty, I don’t think it ever affected me to the same extent as it has you,” Hannibal murmured after a moment’s pause. “I found it...freeing in its inevitability.”

“Freeing?” Will echoed in disbelief, sitting upright. Hannibal’s face was close to his own, so much that Will could feel his warm breath stirring his hairline.

“Once you come to terms with that fact that death is inevitable, you can appreciate the time you do have. Then you can come to appreciate the beauty of it.”

“I don’t see how something so horrible could be beautiful,” Will spat. Yet even as he said it, he considered the ache in his chest, the bittersweet sting of it something akin to perfection.

“Not yet,” Hannibal said, “but there is much left for me to share with you. The question becomes whether you can handle it.”

Sleep didn’t come for Will that night. The strange physical sensations he’d experienced earlier in the day were gone for the time being, replaced instead by the obsessive repetition of the memory Hannibal had shared with him. He was beginning to construct his memory palace under Hannibal’s guidance, but this memory would not stay neatly stored away with the others. It was insistent and relentless, jumping to the forefront of his mind every time he closed his eyes.

Maybe it _was_ better this way, with the Community keeping everyone safe and fed without hunting and killing defenseless animals. Maybe mankind didn’t deserve all the beautiful things in the world when they were capable of such ugliness. Everyone was content with their lot in life. They needn’t fear the future, the end of the life, the inevitable separation from family and friends.

Only the more he ran the memory through in his mind, the more details he remembered. He teased them out, letting them take centre stage. Past the man’s sorrow was his refusal to surrender to it. There was an incredible strength within him that kept him going each day. A determination to survive even in the face of such agony. Even though his family was gone. Even if it meant killing another living creature.

In his mind, he could almost imagine Hannibal’s voice asking him if that was not beautiful, in its own way.

By morning he’d decided he couldn’t say, one way or the other, without experiencing it further.

That was hardly a comforting notion, but Will had sensed Hannibal’s enthusiasm to share it with Will, mingled with his concern that Will was too weak for this role.The idea itself was enough to bolster Will’s courage. It made him want those memories. One day it would be his duty to advise the Overseer and Elders, and how could he do that if he shied away from any aspect of his position?

“I want more memories of death,” he said, without preamble, when they were seated together. 

Hannibal froze in the motion of extending his hand and drew it back to himself instead. That was pleasure Will saw sparking in his eyes, and approval. “Very well.” He sat there reflectively, searching through his own memories for the one he wished to share with Will.

It was not what Will was expecting, less of a memory and more a collection of images that gave him the impression of what death had meant to humans, once upon a time. A time when sickness and infection killed. Absurdly minor injuries that today could be treated and healed within a matter of moments led to a drawn out death. Plagues that wiped out whole families and left bodies dumped in haphazard heaps on the side of the streets. The scent of their bodies burning and the ash drifting like snow down from the sky.

People that were so inured to the idea of death that they romanticised it. Death as an end to strife, a time when one could at last rest, no longer troubled with the concerns of the living. A sense of peaceful acceptance, if not outright longing, for that release. Lovers and their suicide pacts, widows locking themselves away from the outside world in a symbolic death, fictions of vampires and ghosts and the reanimated dead.

The rituals surrounding it, of burial and funeral pyres, and all the associated trappings. The Egyptians with their giant mausoleums, the elaborate preparation of the bodies, all the treasures locked away with the dead. The Qin necropolis with its terracotta army marching between the plane of life and death. The twisting catacombs beneath Paris, skulls illuminated by flickering candlelight.

And oh, the stories they told themselves! Of supernatural beings who controlled every aspect of life and death. The promise of paradise, all too similar to that eternal peace anticipated by their seniors in Elsewhere. But Hannibal didn’t let him dwell on the sour feeling that left in his stomach.

Along with the notion of came a greater understanding of decay, of the effect of time on all things. Bodies overrun with insects, stripping away flesh and internal organs until all that remained was bones, then those too, crumbling to dust.

It wasn’t just flesh and bone subject to the ravages of time. There were the buildings half fallen down, reclaimed by nature. Whole towns swallowed up by plantlife slowly eroding the foundation until a hundred years later there was no sign of what had once stood there, save perhaps a street sign trodden underfoot.

The sun was all but gone from the sky by the time Hannibal let him up from it. Will was hungry, stiff from sitting too long, and exhausted. For all of that, he couldn’t stop the shaky laughter that bubbled from his chest. It wasn’t happiness, exactly, closer to relief. The memories Hannibal gave him always inspired the strangest displays of emotion. Will had long ago given up trying to fully understand it.

“Do you see now?” Hannibal asked, hand caressing Will’s cheek and sinking into his hair. Will pressed gratefully into the touch.

 _Freeing,_ Hannibal had said. _Beautiful._

Will nodded, still lost in the tangle of memories. “I see.”

*

“This,” Hannibal explained, leading Will into the music room by hand, “is a piano.”

“What does it do?” Will wondered out loud, eyes alight with curiosity. He pulled away from Hannibal to stroke along the polished mahogany of the lid. 

Hannibal lifted the fall board, baring the keys for his appraisal, and Will obligingly plucked out a random note. His eyes widened in surprise, lovely pink mouth falling open in a wide O.

Darting a quick look at Hannibal, seeking and receiving approval, Will’s fingers danced over the keys. It was a discordant, jumbled mess, and Hannibal could listen to it for hours, as Will acquainted himself with the instrument. But all too soon Will stopped, looking expectantly towards Hannibal.

Hannibal took a seat at the bench, back straight, and laid his fingers to the keys. He observed Will closely as he began to play: Chopin’s nocturne op. 9 no. 2. The way his eyes grew wider still before fluttering closed in wonder, and the flush of pleasure in his cheeks. His fingers gripped tighter against the hem of his shirt with each passing bar, tugging absent-mindedly at the fabric so roughly it might tear.

Will’s growing range of expression had been impossible to miss. It was evident in his reactions to the memories Hannibal gave him and the animated way he spoke when discussing whichever book he’d chosen that day--far more satisfying even than Will’s muted outrage when Hannibal had led him to read the beginning of Brave New World, knowing full well the connection the boy would draw to his friend Margot. 

Free from the absentium, Will’s personality had begun to shine through--earnest and eager to learn, but with a fair heaping of insecurities. He covered for them with a dazzling combination of brashness, timidity, and acerbity. Little uncontrolled outbursts railing against his constraints and no small measure of cheek. Quick with a smart response when he felt condescended toward or emotionally out of his depth.

So too grew his level of ease in occupying Hannibal’s space. Will had begun to let himself into the home without invitation, leaving his jacket and shoes wherever he pleased, helping himself to the washroom and fixing his own tea. Taking down books at seeming random and curling up in his chair for hours on end. Staking his claim in Hannibal’s space.

It was gratifying, perhaps even more so than the boy’s all too obvious attraction for him. That, Hannibal smelled whenever his touches lingered too long, and could read plainly on Will’s face. He may have had permission to lie, but that didn’t mean Will had any particular skill at it, especially when he had no idea what it was he was feeling or how to hide it. 

Hannibal was still uncertain if his help in such matters would be unwelcome or not. Will had no cause for shame, but that did not mean he wouldn’t feel it, if Hannibal were to call attention to the reactions of his body. No one had ever explained such things to Hannibal. He’d been left with the roar of a million memories in his mind, picking each apart long after his Giver had gone, coming upon the understanding of sexual desire on his own.

That was not an aspect of the human condition he’d given much attention. There was, after all, no one to share it with. The only person he’d grown close to since his Giver’s Release was Mischa, and his feelings towards her had been strictly platonic. Even if he were to apply for a partner, she would not have any inclination towards intercourse. In fact indulging in such activities might easily lead to both their Release. And besides, there were far more interesting memories for him to focus on.

Until now, Hannibal had kept such memories locked in the far corners of his mind palace. Will’s arousal made it impossible for him to ignore entirely, however. Hannibal found himself idly perusing them, both tawdry and sentimental, considering whether or not to share them now or save them for later.

While he pondered that dilemma, there was plenty else to share with Will. Better than even the finest memories he’d received was the relishing in Will’s response to those same memories. Their aesthetics were wildly divergent, but Hannibal was learning which memories would whet Will’s appetite. Chilly afternoons and long runs on the edge of the forest to Hannibal’s darkened dance halls and nights on the town; packs of dogs and the burn of whiskey by the fireplace to Hannibal’s immaculately kept manors and fine wine over fancy dinners. 

All the same, Hannibal was quietly thrilled by Will’s immediately visceral response to music. Tear tracks lined his cheeks, shining silver in the sunlight, and Hannibal was caught off-guard by the impulse to taste them. It was such a powerful and singular thought that he nearly missed a note. 

When the song came to an end, he was out of sorts, his heart burning against his ribs in a tremulous, raw rhythm. He swallowed hard, unable to look Will in the eye for fear of what Will might read in his own. What that might be, Hannibal couldn’t begin to say, and the notion nearly forced a burst of laughter from him at the reversal.

Will lifted a hand to his cheek and stared down at his fingers. The queer smile on his face gave way to confusion, lips turning down, a faint furrow between his gathered brows. “That was...but I’m crying.” He laughed, a tittering, nervous, delighted sound. “I’m not sad, but I’m crying.”

“There are a variety of reasons for tears, beyond pain or grief,” Hannibal spoke as if reciting it from a textbook. “Any overwhelming emotion can provoke a lacrimal response. Happiness, for example.”

“Would you play another?”

“I would gladly play for you as long as you wish it,” Hannibal answered. “Though perhaps you might like to hear it from one possessing far greater skill than myself. I have hundreds of memories of performances to share.”

Will shook his head. “I don’t really care about the memories,” he snapped. “Who cares about the memories, Hannibal. I want to hear you play it, right now.”

Hannibal couldn’t begin to fathom why. He was a technically proficient player, but he knew he lacked the finesse of the greats. Yet he would not deny Will, and so he played throughout the morning and into the early afternoon. Often from memory, but gauging Will’s reaction to each piece and tailoring his performance accordingly, he eventually dug into his collection of sheet music.

After lunch, Hannibal showed Will how the record player worked, and they spent the rest of the day listening to the warbling voices of the chanteuses of old, the soaring notes of grand arias, and the upbeat popular music of the late twentieth century. Will leaned back with eyes closed and drank in the sounds, barely a word out of him the entire time, until they parted.

At the door, Will was fidgety, tucking his hands up inside his sleeves. He bounced up and down a couple of times before finally giving into impulse and going up on his toes to brush his lips against Hannibal’s cheek. “I wish I didn’t have to go,” he said.

There was a lump in Hannibal’s throat that he swallowed back, along with the words of reciprocation that rose unbidden in response. Instead, he managed, “But you must.”

Will nodded, and with a lingering backward glance, climbed onto his bike. Hannibal stood in his open doorway, watching as he wove his way down the garden path. It was then that he caught a glimpse of bright red curls from the corner of his eye. This wasn’t the first time Hannibal had noticed the girl in the garden; in fact, it seemed something of a habit of hers, lingering there at the beginnings and endings of Will’s training sessions.

“Fredericka, isn’t it?” Hannibal asked, coming upon her. Of course he knew. For him, she’d stood out in the crowd almost from birth, with that hair. He’d at once known who her Birth Mother must have been, and could pick out her three half-siblings at a glance. No doubt it would have infuriated Bedelia if she could see the colour, to know how different it made them.

The girl jumped, a flash of muted fear crossing her face. Then she tossed her hair mutinously. “Freddie,” she corrected.

Nicknames were unusual in the Community, and when they were given, it was generally the result of some memorable incident. That Fredericka had chosen this for herself was an interesting display of individuality. Consider him intrigued.

“Tell me, Freddie, what assignment did you receive?”

Freddie’s throat worked around a swallow, and she smiled tightly. “Judge.”

“Ah.” Hannibal nodded. He took her elbow in hand and began to lead her back towards his home. She only resisted slightly, caught off-balance no doubt by the fact he was touching her and wondering if she was even allowed to pull away from one as exalted as himself. “And does your work often require you to spend time in the gardens.”

After a brief hesitation, she answered. “No.”

“Then is it on the way from your dwelling to the judicial buildings?” Hannibal opened his door and pulled her within the dark alcove, closing and locking the door behind them before he released her.

Freddie jerked backwards, smoothing her hands down her arms and over her hair, nonplussed. “What do you want?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Hannibal said, voice pitched low. Not outright menacing, but she reacted predictably. The dilation of her pupils, her breath coming faster, the scent of fear rising acrid from her skin. “Why have you been following Will?”

For a moment, Hannibal thought she might try to deny it, indignance warring with her fear. But then the fight went out of her, shoulders slumping forward in defeat. She rolled her eyes towards the floor, lip caught between her teeth. “Will’s always been different.” She spoke the word with such disdain. “But since he’s started his training, he’s become increasingly erratic.” 

She tossed her hair again and threw back her shoulders. “No one else seems to notice or care, but for the security of the Community, someone needs to keep an eye on him before he crosses the line and violates the rules.”

“How very prescient of you,” Hannibal said in a low purr. “A remarkable display of independent thinking. It’s really too bad that in attempting to ensure that Will follow the rules, you yourself broke them.”

Freddie’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?” she repeated. No doubt Jack found her keen sense of observation ideal for the position she’d been awarded.

“There was a girl named Mischa, number twenty-three of birth year one-hundred and seventy-four. Eight years ago she was sent to live in another neighbourhood. I would like you to find out which one, and what became of her there.”

The pause in Freddie’s response was no doubt due to the shock over such a suggestion. “If that’s true, what’s it to you?”

“That is no concern of yours, Freddie. You do this for me, and I’ll overlook your snooping this once.”

It pained her to agree to his terms, but of course she had no choice, and they both knew it. “I’ll look,” she said, “but I’m not making any promises. If Jack caught me looking up those records, I’d be the one up for judgement.”

“Then I suggest you work on your sneaking skills.” 

Hannibal moved to unlock the door, and Freddie’s whole countenance changed. She hung back and met his gaze shyly. “That sound from before. The one like...Like the chiming of the belltower, but--” She trailed off, completely lost for words.

“That is for the Receiver alone. If the Overseer knew you’d heard it, Jack would be the least of your concern,” Hannibal backed her against the door, pleased with the way she had to crane her neck back to look him in the eye. “You’d be facing Release.”

“Thank you for your kindness, Receiver,” she said, with a smile painted of insincerity and a tone dripping poison.

Hannibal opened the door and shooed her out, smiling to himself once the door was firmly locked behind her. He had requested the information of Bedelia in the past, but she’d met him with platitudes about how much better off both he and Mischa were with this new arrangement. It was the best outcome he could have hoped for, she’d reminded him, when he’d chosen to defy the Elders in such a blatant manner.

Despite his best attempts to unearth the details of Mischa’s reassignment, Hannibal had been thwarted each time. By now she’d have settled into a profession, have a family unit and children of her own. He’d prefer to see her happiness for himself, rather than trust Bedelia’s assurances. She excelled in her position as Overseer, which was precisely the reason Hannibal didn’t trust a single thing she said or did, particularly in regards to the well-being of citizens who broke the rules.

On his way to the kitchen to prepare dinner, Hannibal tidied the mess left by Will. Rather than feeling exasperation, Hannibal found he enjoyed the reminder of Will’s presence in his home. Scattered record sleeves and a half-finished cup of tea, blanket and pillow left discarded on the floor.

As he minced the garlic and diced the onion for his evening meal, Hannibal’s mind was occupied with thoughts of the young Receiver. There was a meditative property to going through familiar motions which allowed him to filter through the memories in his mind palace.

It hadn’t been his intention to impart with Will the idea of death so early in their relationship. It was a notion that had deeply troubled Mischa, and had been the beginning of her unravelling. But some dark impulse in Hannibal’s mind had nudged him toward it whispering of the necessity of testing Will’s mettle. 

That was a part of himself that Hannibal did his best to quiet, though in this case he chose to surrendered to it. If he were pressed to explain why, he’d be forced to admit it was something in the way Will had looked at him the first morning off his medication--a naked hunger Hannibal had only ever seen before in the memory of others. It had made him want to push back against Will’s boundaries.

Will had been deeply affected by it, more than Hannibal himself ever had been by the notion of loss and death. Unlike Mischa, however, he’d been able to carry on and focus his attention on other memories and emotions, rather than drowning. It was satisfying for Hannibal to observe.

What to show him next, then? The voice of temperance within him urged patience. Show him more of the beauty in the world--more hedonistic, aesthetic driven memories of gourmet foods, the tactile sensation of luxurious fabrics against the skin, the vibrancy of colour in master works of art, the scent of expertly blended colognes--all the finest things on offer.

Yes Will had proven himself to be capable, and Hannibal was oh so tempted to continue down the path into darker, more dangerous memories, but they had plenty of time. There was no need to rush. Better to savour the process, dropping hints of what lay in store a little at a time as they progressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice I changed the chapter count--I've broken down the length of the chapters a little bit so I can keep posting every couple days while finishing up the changes I'm making to the second half of the fic. As I mentioned on my tumblr, during editing I noticed a big continuity error that I'm working on fixing, but it should still be posted in its entirety over the next 1-2 weeks!  
> You can always check out my tumblr to keep updated! http://moku-youbi.tumblr.com/


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the fic begins to earn it's explicit warning, so be aware! Also, sorry to cut it off where I did, but this and the previous chapter were one whole chapter before I split them, and I didn't want to change where it ended--it's just too much fun to torment these boys.  
> Art in this chapter by the amazingly talented [granpappy-winchester](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com/). Go shower them with love and praise: http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com/post/151338948586/for-moku-youbi-and-their-amazing-story-only-an

When Will arrived the next day he was on edge, buzzing with unspent energy. Hannibal sat and watched as he walked the perimetre of the room, handling Hannibal’s belongings. There was a casual intimacy to it that sparked warmth in Hannibal’s gut, that held his tongue and kept him still, waiting to see how long it would carry on before Will broke down and spoke what was on his mind.

“I thought when you said side-effects you meant--” Will stopped abruptly and shook his head. “I can’t sleep, I can’t concentrate on anything, I can’t keep anything down. I got sick after dinner last night and I couldn’t tell my parents or go to medical, because they’d know I’d stopped taking my injection.”

Hannibal nodded, and without a word, went into the kitchen to prepare a cup of peppermint tea. Will followed close on his heels, hauling himself up on the countertop next to where Hannibal stood. “I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do to help you through it, other than to offer tea and my bed, and a comforting memory or two.”

Will shook his head. “I don’t want any memories,” he muttered.

Hannibal straightened up in concern. Was it possible he’d overestimated Will’s ability to recover from the memory of death? Will slumped over with a groan and rested his head against Hannibal’s shoulder, and Hannibal found himself holding very still for fear of dislodging him.

“Could you just play for me again, today? I don’t want anyone else inside my head at this moment. It’s busy enough in there right now.”

Hannibal abandoned the tea and lifted his hand to cradle the nape of Will’s neck. The ends of his hair were just beginning to curl, and soon he would be expected to cut it. Hannibal hoped he wouldn’t, now that it was no longer required of him. He had the mental image of an angel of the Renaissance, Will’s full pink lips and smiling cheeks, and a head full of cherubic curls.

He bent his head to press a kiss to the crown of Will’s head, and Will jerked upwards to look him in the eye. “What is that?”

“Hmm?” Hannibal was all too aware of their proximity. Distracted by the press of Will’s knee against his hip, his hand still threaded in Will’s soft hair, their breath mingling.

“What you just did, with your mouth?” Will’s eyes flicked down to Hannibal’s mouth and back again to his eyes, pupils swallowing up the blue. “I did it to Abigail, and I didn’t know why, but once I started I didn’t want to stop.”

“It’s called a kiss,” Hannibal breathed. “It was a way of expressing affection, before.”

“It felt different, giving Abigail a kiss and one to you.”

Hannibal’s throat worked around a swallow, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth. “Kisses, like tears, can be the culmination of a great many emotions. If you’d like, I could show you.” He lifted a hand that miraculously did not shake, but Will caught him by the wrist.

“Can you show me with your mouth?”

Almost independent of the involvement of his mind, his body moved, lurching forward to close the space between them before he caught himself. There were a million reasons why he couldn’t do this, chief among them what Bedelia would do if she ever discovered it. Will would be whisked away the same as Mischa, and Hannibal would be alone again. And for what, the briefest moment of pleasure?

The tea kettle began to whistle, and Hannibal held back a sigh of relief at the interruption. “Another time, perhaps,” he lied, and untangled himself from Will’s grasping hands. He seized upon the tea in desperation. “If you would like to go onto the music room, I’ll be along shortly with your tea.”

Will lingered a moment, and Hannibal couldn’t miss the tenting in his trousers and his uneven breathing. Then, thankfully, he hopped down from the counter and made his way down the hall, and Hannibal let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

That wasn’t the end of it, of course. Will was tenacious, Hannibal was coming to learn. He was beginning to understand what he wanted, and he made sure he got it--whether it was Hannibal performing as his private orchestra, working through the instruments he kept in his home, or stealing kisses whenever he pleased.

Hannibal almost immediately realised his error in explaining kisses how he had. Framing them as a show of affection, Will dispensed them as freely as others in the Community expressed their enjoyment of one another, and in the most inappropriate places.

As Hannibal sat that the piano that day, Will was so overtaken by his emotions that he brushed his lips along the exposed skin between the ends of Hannibal’s hair and his shirt collar. Hannibal had missed the notes that time, covering for it by declaring that Will had heard enough of the piano, perhaps he would care to hear some of the harp or flute?

It was now Will’s habit to meet Hannibal each morning with a kiss to his cheek, and part from him in the evening in the same manner, and that wasn’t all. He agreed cheerfully enough to Hannibal’s suggestion that they return to the giving and receiving of memories.

“Can you show me another animal?” Will asked, ears going pink as he spoke the words.

“Actually, there was something else I thought you might enjoy,” Hannibal said. He’d been cultivating an idea of what memories Will would appreciate, based on his reaction to those Hannibal had shared so far and Will gratifyingly submitted at once, eyes falling closed even before Hannibal touched him.

This memory seemed to have been created specifically for Will’s enjoyment. A mountain stream in the Smokies, the smooth, rounded stones visible through the crystal clear water. The rush of it cold even through the waders, and that melodic sound as it tripped over and between the rocks.

The meticulously crafted flies of exotic feathers and metallic floss that shone on the graceful arch through the air, landing with barely more than ripple on the surface. Fish darted around him, sunlight catching iridescent on their scales. How long they lingered in that memory was impossible to say. Long enough for the fish to no longer fear their presence, moving around and between their legs as if they’d always been there.

Time dragged along with the current, pulling at their ankles like hands, and someone thought of how peaceful it would be to give in to the tug, to sink down beneath the water and the stones and the soil beneath. Hannibal could not say if the thought was Will’s or his own, or a product of the memory.

Eventually they caught a trout, cleaned and filleted it, and cooked it over a campfire. Had anything ever tasted as delicious? The fresh, flakey flavour rubbed in butter and salt and eaten with bare fingers. This Will could understand and accept, this ritual that showed respect and honour for the death of this creature, which thanked it for the nourishment it provided.

Will was radiant in his happiness when they opened their eyes again in Hannibal’s home, and he took one of Hannibal’s hands in his own, bringing it to his mouth. His lips teased over the thin skin between the webs of his fingers, and that he did not know the effect it had on Hannibal made it all the more thrilling and obscene.

“How do you know just what to show me?” Will asked. “How do you know me so well?”

Hannibal fought the warring impulses to jerk his hand away and to pull the boy closer, to crush his body against his own. Instead he remained still, breathing steadily. “We have spent a great deal of time together, in an intimate setting.”

“I think there’s more to it than that,” Will said. “I’ve spent years with my friends and family, and none of them know me like you do.”

“That’s hardly fair to them,” Hannibal protested, though inwardly he preened at the praise. “They don’t have the same scope of experience as we do.”

Will still held his hand, and now he pressed a kiss to the tips of Hannibal’s fingers. “Your Giver didn’t show you the same care you’ve shown me, and you can’t tell me that you’d have shown the same for just anyone chosen to be your Receiver.”

“No,” Hannibal agreed and his fingers twitched just slightly, dragging across Will’s bottom lip. A thousand memories of kisses played out before his eyes as he imagined what Will’s would taste like, and the give of his soft, full lips. “You’re special.”

Will rewarded him with a stunning smile and another quick kiss to his hand before finally releasing him. “What other memories did you pick just for me?” he asked, and there was no way for him to know how flirtatious he came across, all fluttering lashes and rolled shoulders, smile turning coy.

Again, without his approval, Hannibal’s body betrayed him, the words flowing teasing from his lips as he stroked his hand across Will’s cheek. “Let me show you.”

Stumbling drunk through the streets of New Orleans, on the edge of Mardi Gras, all the lights blurring into dazzling fractals. Arms threaded together, songs overlapping, the salty tang of agave from the tequila. Far enough from the festivities to observe without being drawn into the hot tangle of bodies. To enjoy the celebration without becoming a part of it. Feeding on the high of the emotions of others.

A rainy day ducking between basilicas in Rome, breathing in the musty smell, standing under the towering ceilings, the dazzling mosaics and ornate tombs. The sound of clicking heels on uneven stone, tolling bells, the soaring hymns ringing out across time.

On a private beach, drenched in warm sunlight, with white sand and the bluest water stretching on forever, so starkly different from the choppy waters and rocky beach of the Community. The sensation of sand sifting through his hands, scrunched up between his toes, flung wet against his chest. Lying flat on the placid surface, buoyed up by the salt water. The dull heat of burnt skin and the hissing laughter when rubbing aloe against it.

Will didn’t need to say a word for Hannibal to know he’d been successful.

When he was gone for the evening, the house echoed with his absence, and Hannibal lay awake in bed revisiting another sort of memory altogether. It was hardly satisfying, his own hand wrapped around his cock to the recollection of lovers who fell so far short of the mark made by Will, but it would have to suffice.

*

Within a week, most of the negative results of skipping his injections had passed. The nausea and lack of appetite and sleeplessness were long gone by now. There remained however, nearly two weeks after he’d stopped, the inconvenient and frankly disquieting physical effect to his penis--the electric sensation and resultant hardness that left him feeling restless and dissatisfied.

Hannibal had to have noticed it, but had failed to remark on it as he had the other side-effects of Will going off his medication. Will took this to mean there was nothing harmful about the condition, but it was distracting all the same.

It happened with alarming frequency--often when Hannibal touched him, though sometimes it was just the sight of him or a particular memory. Honestly there seemed no rhyme or reason to it, making it difficult for him to predict when it might happen.

Like the memory of dancing in a crowd, the sticky sweaty press of bodies writhing in time to the beat, then walking out into the cool, fresh air, a breeze lifting the hair from his neck and shoulders.

Or the memory of the swimming hole in the oppressive Georgian heat, all the kids stripping down to their underwear and jumping in with abandon. How Will couldn’t help but stare at their bodies and notice all the things he’d never thought about before. The deep brownish pink of their nipples, hard and peaked through the fabric of the bras the girls wore, the hair trailing down the boys’ stomachs to their waistbands, the way their skin dragged slick together beneath the water when they wrestled with one another.

That one in particular made things awkward a few days later when Beverly announced her intention to go swimming with her friends during recreation period. Will experienced an immediate, visceral reaction to the idea of Beverly similarly undressed, entirely different from what he’d experienced in the memory. There was an inherent wrongness to thinking of his sister in that way.

They culminated in his dreams. These days his dreams were more impressionistic than linear, and these were no different. Dreams of Hannibal kissing him all over his body, of sharp teeth on skin, of their bodies moving together. They woke him from deep sleep, left him panting for air, body writhing on the mattress chasing some sensation he didn’t know how to give it.

One morning, he woke in a tangle of damp sheets. His underwear were matted sticky to his groin. Will reached down to peel them back from his skin and hissed at the prickly sensation of pain when his hand brushed against his penis. He sat up, kicking aside the sheets and examined the extent of the mess. It was a wide spot spread out beneath him, and when he sniffed it cautiously, it smelled musky, entirely different from his urine, which was a relief.

His first, automatic thought was to tell his parents and report to medical. That was immediately followed by the realisation that they would know after a cursory examination that he’d stopped his medication. He doubted there would be any serious ramifications for having gone off, but they’d put him back on at once, and this time they’d make sure he couldn’t skip out on his injections.

Will bundled up his sheet and underwear in his bag and then went about his morning ablutions. He forced himself to remain calm over breakfast, though he was anxious leave. He managed to smile his way through his goodbyes, and pedalled fast on his way to Hannibal’s home, bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hannibal!” Will took the stairs two at a time on his way downstairs. He pulled his sheets from the bag as he went, holding it out in front of him for Hannibal to see.

Hannibal was at his desk, sketching, and his head jerked up at Will’s approach, nostrils flaring, eyes wide and fixated on the bundle in Will’s hands. His expression was one of perfect, startled disbelief. “What--”

Will thrust the sheets into Hannibal’s hands and Hannibal’s breath stopped for a moment, which only ratcheted up Will’s anxiety that much more. Was it something bad? Was he hurt? “I didn’t know what to do,” he said, the words spilling from him. “It’s because I stopped taking my medication, isn’t it. I keep having these dreams and I wake up with my heart racing and my penis is so hard it _aches_.”

Hannibal’s fingers curled tight around the sheets and his eyes fell closed, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He sucked his top lip between his teeth and let it go with a faint noise. “It’s perfectly natural,” he said, and Will let out a breath, sagging in relief.

“Though you were right to come to me; your parents would not understand. I will take care of your sheets for you, however in the future you can launder them yourself. It will rinse out in the wash.”

“What _is_ it?” Will wondered.

“Your body’s response to arousal and external stimuli, culminating in orgasm.” Hannibal’s tone was curt and clinical in the way it got when he was explaining something he only understood through study of others’ memories. “Before the Community, it was exceedingly common. Most males experienced nocturnal emissions at the onset of puberty. Now as soon as the Stirrings are felt, they are quelled through medication.”

Will threw himself in his chair. “I can’t stop it from happening. I’ve tried meditating in my mind palace before sleep, to focus on calming memories, but it doesn’t help.”

Hannibal sat the sheets aside. “You can’t eliminate them altogether. Any sexually mature male can and will experience them from time to time.”

“So what do I do?” Will asked.

“Bringing yourself to orgasm before sleep can potentially limit the frequency.”

“Okay, so--” Will gestured his hand helplessly in the air. “How do I do that? Can you show me?”

Again, Hannibal closed his eyes, pained. Will’s gaze travelled down the line of his body and he was surprised to see Hannibal’s trousers drawn tight over his own hardness. Will’s penis throbbed in sympathy, a rush of liquid heat from the head, moistening his underwear.

“You can experiment on your own by masturbating--touching yourself when you experience arousal.” Hannibal cleared his throat. “I’d suggest you begin in the shower, to aid in cleaning the resultant mess.”

“Can I use your shower, then?”

Hannibal only hesitated a moment before he stood and swept his hand in the direction of the staircase. “Be my guest. I’ll tend to your sheets in the meanwhile.”

Like every other room in his home, Hannibal’s bathroom was familiar enough to the one in Will’s dwelling for him to know how to use it, but far grander and sumptuously appointed. In addition to the shower stall, toilet, and sink, there was a bathtub that took up a whole corner of the room. Some day Will would like to try it--it sounded strange, the idea of being submerged in hot water, but potentially nice.

For now, Will turned on the water in the shower stall and stripped out of his clothing, folding each piece neatly as he went. All the tiny hairs on his body stood on end in anticipation. He stroked a hand down his chest, and oh, that was nice. A faint tickling sensation that radiated outward from his touch.

He stepped into the shower, sighing in pleasure at the warm water on his skin, and he took a moment to simply turn under the shower head, letting it sluice through the sweat on his skin from the bike ride over. The small space smelled like Hannibal and that only intensified his arousal.

Just touch himself, Hannibal said, like there was nothing more to it than that. Will drew his fingers down the length of himself, penis standing out straight from his body, and his knees nearly went out from under him at the sensation. One hand caught against the wall for balance, he did it again, fingers stroking up and back down again. It dragged the loose skin at the head of his penis tight, exposing the more sensitive skin beneath, slick with more of that fluid.

“Yes,” he moaned weakly, and then, wrapping his hand around his penis, he cried out again, louder, “Yes, yes, yes.”

Perhaps he didn’t know what to do with himself, but his body did. His hips worked frantically, thrusting forward into the tight grip of his fist about a half-dozen times, and then his whole body went tense. Muscles seizing, and the sensation of being intense pleasure washing over him. Will could cry from the relief of it, as his penis jerked in his hand and began to spurt a pearly white liquid from the tip, over and over, painting the walls of the shower, his chest, his wrist.

Will did collapse then, knees striking hard on the tile floor, as the aftershocks wracked through him. He kept stroking himself through each aching, delicious pulse, until it started to burn. Then he sat there, water spattering against his back and over his shoulders.

“Oh, wow,” he said dully, wrung out, blinking the water from his eyes. For just a moment there, he’d never felt anything so wonderful in his life. No memory of his own, nor any Hannibal had shared with him had ever felt that good.

And he could do it again, as often as he liked. He’d have to be careful so he didn’t make a mess at home and attract his parents’ attention, but they’d never need to know. Maybe he’d move his shower to the evening, before he went to bed. At the thought, Will found himself grinning so widely it made his cheeks ache.

He hauled himself to his feet, wiping the remaining mess from the wall. He poured some of Hannibal’s body wash into his palm and brought it to a lather. As he began to clean himself, his penis began to stir and fill out again.

It took longer the second time, long enough for him to really get a sense of what felt particularly good. For one thing, the soap made everything easier, his fist a tight, slick channel for him to rock into over and over. The way the loose skin eased back to reveal the sensitive, slippery pink head. When Will flicked his thumb over it, he couldn’t bite back a cry of surprise at the molten heat that shot through him.

Will didn’t know how many times he could have done it, how much of that melting pleasure he could stand, but the hot water ran out soon after he’d rinsed himself clean a second time. Will dragged himself out of the shower, dripping wet and cold, and wrapped himself in one of Hannibal’s gigantic, fluffy towels. That too was amazing against his skin, the soft fabric kept the chill at bay.

Will smiled at his reflection in the fogged over mirror as he dressed. He was strangely exhausted, given that he’d only been awake a couple of hours, but elated. After dressing, he went back downstairs, lighter and happier than he could ever recall feeling.

Hannibal was in the music room at the piano, and Will followed the sound of the melody. He came in and plopped down on the bench beside him, leaning in to press a quick kiss to Hannibal’s cheek. The ends of his dripping hair left a wet spot on Hannibal’s shirt when he pulled back.

“Thanks,” Will told him, “I feel much better now.”

“Please,” Hannibal told him, smile weak, “don’t mention it.”

                                                          


	5. Chapter 5

“Will!” Molly’s voice rung out across the green. Will turned to see her pedalling fast to catch up with him, breathless and laughing when she pulled alongside. “Will, I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks!”

“I’ve just been busy with training,” he said, ducking his head. Her happiness was hard to look at headon, knowing all the things she didn’t.

“What’s it like?” she asked in a hushed tone. “Everyone wonders what you’re up to all day.”

Will shrugged. “It’s pretty boring,” he lied. “I’d rather hear about what you’ve been doing.”

“I’ve mostly been doing all the same things we did as volunteers, except without supervision,” Molly said. “But Alana said next week I’ll start my training to Release seniors.”

“Hey, that’s great,” Will said, feigning excitement. She couldn’t ever understand what he did, that once the seniors were in Elsewhere, it was only a matter of time before their bodies gave out on them, and they died.

“I was on my way to meet Brian and Jimmy to play a game of cards. Come with me.”

“What about Margot?” Will asked. The five of them had been practically inseparable for as long as he could remember, it was strange to think of them meeting up without her.

Molly laughed again. “Will, Margot hasn’t been around for at least a month--she’s carrying now. I guess we probably won’t see her again until after her time has passed. Which you’d know, if you were ever around anymore.”

There was no good excuse for Will not to join them. It was Sunday, and if he told her he was going to see Hannibal, his parents would likely hear it from hers after the sharing of feelings. That was an unnecessary complication he wished to avoid. Just because he was allowed to lie didn’t mean he wanted his parents to know it. 

Besides, she was right. He hadn’t indulged in any regular recreation activities since his selection. With Hannibal he played chess or listened to music, or spent whole afternoons reading, but maybe it would be nice to do something different for a change. That’s what he told himself at least, trying to shake off his reluctance as he followed Molly towards the rec hall.

Brian and Jimmy were pleased to see him, quick to fill him in on all he missed, while Molly soundly beat them time and again at the game. Watching her stirred something in Will like being near Hannibal did, fainter but still thrilling. It was difficult for him to concentrate on his hand of cards when all he could focus on was the pink of her lips or wondering if her shiny hair was as soft as it looked.

If kisses were a sign of affection, he might like to give one to Jimmy like he gave them to Abigail, to show that Will enjoyed and appreciated him. But Brian and Molly were different, like in that half-forgotten dream from so long ago. They made his fingers itch to touch and his heart pick up a beat.

They wouldn’t understand it. If he kissed any of them, they’d laugh at his odd behaviour and push him off, or maybe respond with concern or anger. You didn’t touch people outside your family unit, and you certainly didn’t touch them like that. Because they had no inkling of what it was to feel such an abundance of emotion, but Hannibal did, and it made Will want to kiss him all the more. He hated that he was stuck here with these people, who he’d thought were his friends, before he’d known any better.

“Will?” 

It took him a moment to realise they were all waiting on him to take his turn, and he fumbled with the cards, choosing one at random to play. After a moment, their expectant faces made it clear they were also waiting on an apology from him. Hannibal’s words about not being governed by the rules of the Community any longer rang in Will’s ears.

“You know, I don’t really feel like playing any more.” He tossed his cards down. “It’s not the same, without Margot.”

“But she’s doing an important job, Will,” Brian said, half-smiling, half-frowning, like he didn’t know how to respond.

“What, being used like an incubator so they can take her child away from her the second it’s born?” Will scoffed. “Sorry, guess I don’t see the appeal.”

Jimmy’s eyebrows shot to his forehead and Molly’s mouth dropped open in surprise. None of them knew how to respond to that. “I’m going to see Hannibal,” he muttered, kicking his chair aside as he went. Nothing followed him but their silence.

At Hannibal’s, he let himself in, making his way down the spiral stair into the study. It was later than he usually came on Sundays. Maybe Hannibal had thought he wasn’t coming at all. He wasn’t in the study, but the gentle strains of music drifted through the home, and Will followed it. Eerie, piercing, wailing sounds that were unlike any of the other instruments he’d heard.

Will came to stand in the doorway of the music room to watch. The instrument itself was as strange as the sound it made. Hannibal sat before it, straight backed, eyes closed, fingers moving in carefully in the space between the antenna that stood upright at one end and the curved wire at the other, coaxing forth those sounds. For sometime he continued to play, and Will’s muscles, held tense since Molly called his name that morning, began to relax.

Hannibal dropped his hands and the sound stopped abruptly. “I saw my friends today,” Will said into the ringing silence.

Hannibal opened his eyes, brows quirked expectantly, knowing Will would continue when he chose to. He really did know Will better than Will knew himself, at times. Will came further into the room, dropping down onto the piano bench. He plucked out a few notes of the beginning of a song Hannibal was teaching him, but it didn’t sound the same as when Hannibal did it. “Do you wish to talk about it?”

“I was thinking about how you won’t kiss me, and that it might be nice to kiss Molly. Then I realised she’d have no idea what I was doing, so what’s the point?” Will brought his hands down heavily, striking the keys discordantly.

Will couldn’t even begin to pick apart the look on Hannibal’s face in reaction to his words. 

“Come here,” Hannibal said, extending his hand for Will to take.

Will withheld for a moment, not because he didn’t want to go. For some reason, he wanted to make Hannibal wait. It made his stomach swoop high in his throat and plummet down low to see Hannibal’s eyes narrow just slightly, tongue darting out to lick his lips. Will made a teasing show of extending his hand, and let Hannibal pull him near. The little yank Hannibal gave-- rougher than necessary, impatient--kicked up his heart rate a notch.

Hannibal maneuvered Will around to stand with his back to Hannibal’s front and scooted back on the bench to make room for him to sit between Hannibal’s legs. “This is the theremin.”

“It sounded weird,” Will said, exhaling roughly. Hannibal was warm pressed all against him, pelvis to shoulder. Will could feel the shift of the muscles of Hannibal’s thighs as they tightened around his hips. His penis responded as it often did in Hannibal’s presence these days, growing hard and sensitive between his legs.

“The sound it produces is purely electronic,” Hannibal said. The words brushed against Will’s ear and burnt down his spine. Hannibal lifted Will’s arms, hands around his wrists, and guided him towards the instrument. “This antenna controls the pitch and this one controls the volume.” He demonstrated, dragging their joined hands through the thin air, producing a warbling note that diminished in volume as they drew further away from that antenna.

Will didn’t know how he was supposed to pay any attention to learning this instrument, when his whole body was buzzing with excited anticipation at Hannibal’s touch. How Hannibal’s fingers stroked absently against the delicate skin of his inner wrist, making Will suck in a shocked breath. How he twined their fingers together, curling Will’s to make just the right sound, and a whimper escaped Will’s throat at the sensation of Hannibal’s fingers drawing ever so lightly up the inside of his own.

The instrument squealed uncertainly. “That doesn't sound right,” Will protested, but made no move to pull away.

Hannibal made a humming sound, nose nudging Will’s pulse. He drew in a great breath there against his skin. Will tipped back his head, neck craned into Hannibal’s touch.

They swayed together, the theremin responding in a strange, low song that reverberated in Will’s veins. He rocked his hips backward, finding an answering hardness. The sound Hannibal made rumbled between them and ran along Will’s nerves. Will didn’t think he was mistaken in the belief that it was altogether an indication that Hannibal found himself in the same state.

“I have no idea what I'm doing.”

Hannibal’s grip tightened around Will’s fingers. The theremin made a sharp squealing noise as he drew their hands back, clutched against Will’s stomach. Will squirmed, fighting the urge to push Hannibal’s hands lower, to the aching centre of him. If it felt nice to touch himself there, how might it feel if Hannibal was the one stroking him, when the mere brush of his lips against Will’s skin drove him to distraction?

“No,” Hannibal said, voice uneven. His lips moved over Will’s skin with each word he spoke, the grain of his facial hair rough on sensitive flesh. “No idea what you do to me.” 

Will moved against him, attempting to twist to face him, but Hannibal held him tightly in place. His head thumped back against Hannibal’s shoulder in frustration. “So show me.” His body sung with unspent energy, and he imagined Hannibal’s hands playing across him like one of his instruments.

Hannibal stood abruptly, hands shaking loose from Will’s. He adjusted the front of his trousers and smoothed a hand back through his hair. Their eyes met, and a tangible heat throbbed between them. But Hannibal blinked and turned away, and that connection was gone.

“Feel free to make use of the library,” Hannibal called over his shoulder, and he disappeared up to his room for some time.

Will kicked around the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea, then curled up in his chair with his newest book. He ended up reading the same page several times before he gave up and threw it across the room. Upstairs he could hear the shower running, and that suddenly sounded like an excellent idea. He grabbed his things and hurried back home for a shower of his own.

Thankfully no one mentioned what had transpired between his friends and himself that evening. Either none of them had told their parents, or if it simply wasn’t going to be brought up, but after dinner Will found a message waiting for him on the tablet in his room. It was rarely used as anything other than a calendar.

Will pressed the flashing number one in the upper corner, and the screen came to life with a recording of the Overseer. “Hello Will, I’m sorry to disturb you at home.” She’d left a little pause, as if she expected him to mumble his way through an acceptance of her apology. Will did not. “I would like you to report to my office tomorrow on your way to the Receiver’s dwelling. There are some things I’d like to discuss with you.”

The words settled like dread on his shoulders, and after that it was impossible to sleep. He tossed and turned, and tried to focus on the soft sounds Abigail made in her sleep--deep breaths and soft murmurs that soothed some of the sharp edges of unease.

 

*

Like all the other official buildings, the Overseer’s office was constructed of metal, cement, and glass. Sleek and stark, free of any decorative frills. Impersonal and cold. Will rode the elevator to the top floor, stomach flipping unpleasantly in his stomach.

Though he knew the likely reason for his being called her had to do with his outburst playing cards yesterday, he couldn’t shake the fear that it was something worse. Could the Overseer somehow know what had transpired between Hannibal and himself? You didn’t touch others. You certainly didn’t sit within their arms, lips to skin, and ask for more. 

Would Hannibal be in trouble for it? Would he? Surely the wouldn’t reassign him--they’d said how long and far they’d looked for a Receiver. A few kisses wouldn’t be cause enough to bring that to an end…

“Will.” Overseer Bedelia was smaller even than he remembered, or maybe it was that Will had grown since he’d last stood near her. She smiled in a manner reminiscent of his mother, with her mouth rather than her eyes. But unlike his mother, who only seemed sad and tired these days, the Overseer radiated insincerity. How did no one else see it?

Already at the Ceremony of Sixteen, Will’s utter faith in the Overseer had begun to crumble. Since then, his time spent with Hannibal had engendered his mistrust and dislike of the Elders. He watched her warily as she sat across from him on a straight-backed sofa by the window. 

Will was distantly aware of her beauty, like something from the memories Hannibal tended to favour. A particularly lovely piece of art, dainty and well-shaped, with the appearance of fragility. Will, however, could see the cunning in her eyes. She waited, as if she thought he might simply start speaking if she waited long enough. Will wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.

“How is your training going?” she asked at last, in that gentle way of hers. She reminded him of the memories of psychiatrists Hannibal had shared with him, trying to peel back the layers of his brain to find all his hidden secrets.

“It’s going well, Overseer. Hannibal had been helping me to order my thoughts and memories.” Will looked her in the eye and smiled just as disingenuously as she. “It’s difficult work, but with his help, I’ll get through it.”

“You know, Hannibal trained another Receiver before you.” 

Will tried to remain blank-faced, but he couldn’t help his blinking, open-mouthed shock. Why hadn’t anyone told him? Why hadn’t Hannibal? There had to be a good reason for it. Will trusted in that, at least.

“She wasn’t chosen for the role, as you have been,” Bedelia went on, eyes searching his face for any clue as to his reaction. “She had the ability to See Beyond, but she lacked the necessary strength. The Elders had already decided that she would be assigned a different task, when Hannibal took it upon himself to begin the sharing of memories with her.”

“Then where is she?” Will asked. “What happened to her?”

“Twenty-three was unable to bear the memories Hannibal shared with her. They caused her a great deal of stress, and she suffered a breakdown. In the end, she was purged of the memories and sent to live in another neighbourhood, away from the daily reminder of what she had experienced.”

Will didn’t know how to respond to this. All he really wanted was to escape from this office back to the warmth of Hannibal’s home, and ask for his version of the story. Overseer Bedelia touched his shoulder, and it felt nothing like the comfort Will received from Hannibal, or his parents and friends. He fought the urge to shudder.

“I tell you this because it has come to my attention that you haven’t been engaging in recreation, and have been spending the majority of your time in the Receiver’s dwelling.”

“Is that against the rules?” Will demanded.

“Oh, no,” the Overseer assured him. “Of course as the Receiver, your training is different from any other within the Community. However you and Hannibal deem appropriate to spend your time, it is not up to me or anyone else to question. My concern, Will, is that without your outside connection to your friends and family unit, you may find yourself caving under pressure as twenty-three did.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Will said, “but I’m fine.”

The Overseer studied him a moment longer and said, “Very well, Will. But if you ever start to feel as though the memories are growing to be too much--if you ever feel as though Hannibal is pushing too hard--please come to me at once. We do not wish to lose another Receiver so soon.”

*

“Bedelia informed me you would be late this morning,” Hannibal remarked. “And what did our esteemed Overseer want to do with you?”

When Will didn’t answer immediately, Hannibal turned to look at him. “Why didn’t you tell me there was another Receiver before me?”

“Ah.”

“That’s all you have to say?” Will had never been angry with Hannibal before, in fact he’d never been angry with anyone like this before, not even Freddie. If he thought about it, he couldn’t explain why he was so angry. Hannibal didn’t owe him anything, and there was nothing inherently bad about keeping this secret. Yet his whole body weighed heavy with the emotion, skin tingling like he’d gone numb.

“It is something I tend to keep locked away in my memory palace,” Hannibal said. “Not because I wish to forget her, but because of the pain it causes to remember.”

And just like that, Will’s anger deflated, leaving him on a softly exhaled, “Oh.” He came further into the room and sat across from Hannibal. “What happened?”

“What did Bedelia tell you?”

“That she wasn’t chosen. That you shared your memories with her anyway. That she couldn’t handle them.”

“All true,” Hannibal said. “I had suggested her to begin training, but Bedelia was adamant against it. At the time I had thought it was due to the fact that Mischa and I shared the same birth mother, though in the end Bedelia’s concerns proved warranted.”

“She was your sister,” Will said, shame and guilt rolling over him like a wave. Of course Hannibal would understand that connection like no other in the Community, and would feel her loss more profoundly.

“I had never felt particularly close to the members of my family unit, yet even before I’d become Receiver, I was drawn to her. I remember volunteering as a teacher for the nines, and seeing her eyes, so like mine. Red was the first colour I saw as well, and it was in both our eyes.”

Without warning, Hannibal brought his hand up to Will’s cheek, and began the transference of a memory. It took Will a moment to process the fact that he was seeing through Hannibal’s eyes. For the first time, Hannibal was sharing one of his own, private memories.

This was Mischa he was looking at, a girl his own age, who laughed as often and freely as Molly. Who was scolded for riding her bike too fast and standing up as she pedalled. Who used to let her pigtails down from their braids when she ran to feel the hair on her skin and loved to twirl around, and whose favourite memories were of rain kissing her face.

Mischa, who threw her arms around Hannibal with such perfect, unquestioning love that it was staggering.

With that memory, Will began to understand the concept of love. Affection so great it couldn’t be contained within. It needed to be expressed, through words, through touch, through connection. 

Just as Will thought he could get lost forever basking in the feel of it, warm around him like a blanket, the memory changed. Bedelia and Jack were at the door, expressions grave. “We need to talk to you about Mischa,” Bedelia said, and ushered him inside.

Hannibal had never known fear before that moment. He’d experienced it in memories, he’d understood it in a theoretical way, but the full force of it hadn’t struck him until then. No amount of threats could change what had already been done. They’d taken her away from him, his punishment for breaking the rules.

Losing the Giver had been a trial, but that had more to do with the tangled mess of memories he’d left behind. Losing Mischa was like a physical blow. Having something essential torn from him, and it was all he could do to hold together the tattered remains of flesh left gaping in her absence.

The memories ended as abruptly as they’d begun, and Will sat panting in his chair, trying to process it all, that swift shift from love to loss. Hannibal was watching him guardedly.

“If ever you’ve questioned my reasons for proceeding slowly in our exchange of memories, perhaps you might now understand.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Will said, leaning forward to place his hand on Hannibal’s knee and squeezing with his conviction. “Let Bedelia try to take me away.”

Hannibal laid his hand overtop Will’s, eyes shut briefly. “Don’t say such things.” His hand spasmed around Will’s.

Will bit his tongue against speaking any further promises out loud. “I’m sorry about Mischa,” he said instead. Just thinking of what Hannibal experienced with her and knowing the day would come when Abigail was taken from him was enough to make him sick to his stomach.

“As much as I would have liked for her to have remained with me, it is a selfish desire.” Hannibal said. “It was better for Mischa’s peace of mind to be relocated to another neighbourhood, and therefore, no matter how much I love her, I had to let her go.”

It would take time and further memories to fully understand the concept, but he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. The concept explained what he felt for Abigail, and perhaps to an extent, how he felt about Beverly and his parents, but what of his feelings for Hannibal?

Will considered this for a long time, conflicted and confused. And what did it say about him, that he wasn’t prepared to let Hannibal go, no matter the consequences?

“So that’s what love is?” He couldn’t keep the dissatisfaction from his voice.

“It is one aspect of love; it takes many different forms. There is the love of a parent for a child, of a brother for his sister. That is the love you experienced in my memory of Mischa. The love you experience for Abigail, perhaps, and your family?”

Will nodded, leaning forward in his seat. “But it’s different, like the kisses. How I feel about them, and how I feel about my friends, and how I feel about you.”

Hannibal looked him in the eye and drew a breath, and it seemed to cost him something when he said. “There is the brotherly love we feel for those outside our family, different because we choose those connections for ourselves, based on common interests. And there is romantic love, often inextricably intertwined with sexual desire.”

Those words didn’t really mean anything. As was often the case when reading books in Hannibal’s home, Will only got a partial understanding of the text. “So,” he started, thinking his way through it, “what does it mean, to desire someone?”

“When you longed to kiss your friends and experienced arousal at the thought, you were experiencing desire for them.”

Hannibal’s failure to include himself as an object of Will’s desire did not go unnoticed, but Will didn’t point it out. “So what I feel for them is romantic love?”

“It’s not as simple as that,” Hannibal said. “You can desire someone without being in love with them. Romantic love is often the combination of sexual desire and a powerful emotional bond. Those memories have never been of particular interest to me, but if you would like to see them?”

Will nodded eagerly, scooting his chair forward.

She looked out through the Jasmine curtains of her doli at the sea of faces, beaming back at her. When she lifted her hand to wave, there was a rush of pride at the sight of the intricate henna her mother and aunts had painstakingly painted, lacing between her fingers and across her palm, down her wrist to the bangles that tinkled when she moved.

Her bride awaited her beneath the saffron and pink draped mandap. The billowing white gown was a stark contrast to her own saree with its intricate patterns picked out in gold thread. Perfectly analogous to their entire relationship, from the moment they’d first met and every step that had brought them to this point. 

Two polar opposites, her mother liked to tease her. No one could ever believe she could fall in love with someone so loud and brash who met life headlong, but how could she explain to them, that’s why she’d never stood a chance. She had no defense against this--she couldn’t have anticipated it.

And then he was in an orchard at summertime, with lanterns hung from the apple trees lighting the growing dusk. He stood at the altar dressed in his Sunday best, hair slicked back, nervous and elated with a sick knot in his stomach. 

The whole town gathered together, bedecked in floral garlands, singing and jeering playfully, but silence fell when she arrived at the end of the aisle. Resplendent in her mother’s blue velvet. They snuck off into the forest after the ceremony, the sounds of the distant celebration ringing in his ears when she leaned into him, pressed against a tree, lips meeting as husband and wife.

There were so many different versions of marriage, Will lost count, but that same emotion threaded throughout them all. It didn’t clarify anything for him, though. If anything it only confused things even more. None of these memories quite captured what it was he felt for Hannibal, like he was still missing the one piece of the puzzle that would draw everything together.


	6. Chapter 6

It was a Wednesday when Will arrived back at the dwelling after training and Mother was already there. That in and of itself was unusual enough, but she was pale with dry lips, and her cheeks exhibited none of their usual pink shining through warm russet brown. 

Thinking back on how she’d been less active as of late--resting at home on Sundays, not as talkative at meals Will realised with a pang of guilt that this wasn’t new or recent at all. Between his anxiety over the Ceremony of Sixteen, and now his time spent with Hannibal, he’d been so wrapped up in his own head he hadn’t noticed how long it had been going on.

“Are you unwell?” Will asked, when he found her reclining on the sofa with a stack of files spread out around her.

“I left work a bit early to go to Medical, but I’m fine, Will,” she assured him. Will knew at once he was being lied to. “I should finish up with these papers.”

After dinner, Will went into Beverly’s room, as had become habit, to take Abigail for the evening. He wasn’t sure if their parents hadn’t noticed, or if they were just pretending not to. When he told Beverly about their mother, she shrugged it off. “If she says she’s fine, then she is. Remember when Father got that stomach flu last year and he was home for a few days. And you’ve had more than your fair share of the head cold.”

This was different, but he didn’t know how to explain to Beverly that he just felt it, and knew it to be true. 

“Hey baby girl,” Will cooed at Abigail, alone with her in his room. He traced a finger down her cheek and looked into those eyes, ringed in black like his own, and Hannibal’s. “You’d understand it, wouldn’t you.”

She was fussy tonight, so Will wore her bundled against his chest until bed time. Even then she would not calm down, until Will touched his hand to her cheek and thought of his memory of the deer. He held back the thoughts of death and loss, and focussed only on how the creature had looked, the rush of pleasure at the sight of it.

Abigail fell silent, and Will opened his eyes to see her smiling up at him. “I love you, Abigail,” he whispered, afraid of his voice carrying beyond her ears. “I love you.” 

She reached a hand out and Will gave her his finger to clasp in her fist. He kissed across the backs of her knuckles, skin flawlessly smooth under his touch, and yet it was an entirely different sensation from kissing Hannibal. Kissing Abigail made something fierce and protective rear up inside him. It filled him with a gentle, peaceful warmth. 

Kissing Hannibal set him aflame all over, as if he might actually burn to ash if Hannibal were to reciprocate. When he actually took the time to consider it, it wasn’t a very nice feeling, squeamish in his stomach and shocky through his nerves, and yet he craved it all the same. 

Normally such lines of thinking would send him to the shower. Tonight, worry for his mother encroached on his desire. It would not leave him be, thinking back now on all the details that had slipped by him before. Of the smiles that no longer reached her eyes, how she’d been coming home later and leaving for work earlier, and how Father watched her in concern when she retired to bed before lights out.

When he told Hannibal the next morning, his fears were confirmed in the long pause from Hannibal before he led him to their chairs by the window. “With the advances in medicine in the past one hundred years, most serious illness have been, if not eradicated, made more manageable.”

Will rubbed his hands against his pants, wiping away the nervous sweat. “What kind of illnesses?” he asked. The word clearly didn’t mean the same to Hannibal as himself. Illness brought to mind the flu or cold--uncomfortable, but little more than a temporary inconvenience.

“The Elders have played God, rifling through our genetics, choosing the ideal candidates for breeding, trying to engineer the perfect human. What they fail to understand is that nature will always find a way. Even perfectly healthy genes can mutate and become cancerous.”

The words shivered up Will’s spine. He wrapped his arms around himself, sinking miserably in his seat. “Can they treat it?”

Hannibal inhaled thoughtfully and rested his chin in his hand. “It depends on the severity of the illness, how long she’s had it, and how far it’s spread. What might have killed in weeks or months before can now be managed for years.”

Will chewed on his bottom lip, torn between his fear of the unknown and the potential pain and agony of receiving the memories that would tell him what he needed to know. “I’d like you to show me.”

“Are you certain, Will?” Hannibal leaned forward in his seat, hand landing on Will’s knee. “If you thought the memories of death were difficult to accept, these will be far stronger still. Those were largely impersonal. These are anything but.”

“I know,” Will said. “But I need to know, Hannibal.”

“Very well.” Hannibal gave no protest, no attempt to talk Will down from it, and he appreciated that. He scooted his chair closer to Hannibal’s, their knees slotting together.

First it was a burning pain in her breast. She was afraid at once, thinking of her great aunt and her grandmother, but she was healthy. She got her yearly screenings and she took good care of herself. That denial carried her through the first month, but there was no ignoring it when she felt the lump.

The treatments were endless, monotonous and uncomfortable. Her doctors told her she wouldn’t even notice the catheter after a while, but she never forgot it was there. A dull ache that spread like cold itch through her veins. First it was her hair that went, and then she began losing weight. She had no appetite, and she was cold all the time, but it paid off, in the end. Cancer free, they said.

For a year. And then two. And then she was in for her quarterly checkup and her doctor’s face fell. All the quiet, conciliatory words in the face of her hysterics. _Stage IV? How could it be Stage IV? There was nothing three months ago, how did it spread so fast?_

And it was fast, so much faster than she could have anticipated, ravaging through her body. The hospital room was all plain white walls and floors, stark, uncomfortable and unwelcoming. Rough white sheets were pulled up to her chin, but she was still cold. A cold different from the snow or the winter wind or the stream in autumn, this cold seemed to radiate from within the bones. 

The air was thick with a sterile, medicinal scent that stung in her nostrils when she tried to pull in a lungful of air. It rattled painfully in her chest, and then she was racked with a coughing fit, a coppery burn rising up in the back of her throat.

There were people around her, gathered close by the bedside. Fingers woven through hers and a warm palm on her forehead, pushing back her hair. Her daughter and son, Will knew now, and they were crying but trying not to show it, choking back tears and wiping red noses. 

She wanted to reassure them, heart aching to see them in such pain--worse than the physical suffering she experienced was the thought of her children mourning this loss. They were too young for this. There were so many things she still wanted to share with them. To be there for their graduations, their weddings, to hold her grandchildren when that time came. 

But even sharper was the pain that was the knowledge of all the family dinners she’d miss, game nights, and piling together on the couch for movies, laughing themselves sick over an inside joke. All the moments they’d share in the future that she’d no longer be a part of.

As strong as they were for her, she’d be stronger still for them. Watching her husband’s lips trembling, she made herself smile. It was an almost insurmountable task when her body had betrayed her, growing weaker with every second. She was too young, and this wasn’t fair, why her? Why like this?

Tears poured freely down Will’s cheeks and over his chin, wetting the neckline of his shirt. It wasn’t fair. Why his mother? Just the thought made the tears come harder and faster. He wanted to rail and scream and fight someone. He wanted to strike Bedelia across her face and demand to know what the point of it was. What was the purpose of any of it when some random sickness could still come and steal away someone you loved?

“And that’s what will happen to my mother?”

“Not exactly,” Hannibal said. His fingers drifted away from Will’s temple and fell in his lap. “There are drugs she can take to prolong the inevitable. More effective than those you experienced in the memory. The side-effects will cause some discomfort and lethargy. The doctors will Release her before she can succumb to the cancer. Just how soon depends on whether or not she petitions for Release herself.”

In Elsewhere, she wouldn’t be an outcast, like those Released for punishment. She’d be like one of the seniors--cared for, and kept in peace. No sickly smelling hospital rooms. Mother would probably prefer it that way, just like the woman in his memory. She wouldn’t want to burden them or cause them any sorrow.

Hannibal stood and laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing before releasing him. He disappeared into the kitchen, and Will didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the moment, at Hannibal falling back on his default of making tea when Will was stressed or upset. But there was something reassuring about listening to the sounds, a sort of mundanity that promised life would go on. His mother would die, and Hannibal would still be here to hold him and soothe him and make him tea.

When he returned with a steaming teacup, Will had regained a modicum of control over himself. That onslaught of grief seemed oddly distant now. Like a receding wave, he imagined it would crash over him again in the near future. He took the teacup with a murmured thanks and brought it to his lips to blow gently at the surface, but it smelled unfamiliar.

“I thought you could use something a bit stronger,” Hannibal said.

The first sip carried the distinct flavour of alcohol on Will’s tongue, sweetened with honey, burning down his throat as he swallowed. He nodded in agreement and took another, longer swallow, ignoring the flare of heat in his chest that warned against it.

Hannibal watched him with no small measure of concern, and he looked poised to speak, though the words failed him. Always the bearer of bad news, having to reveal all the cold, ugly truths of the world. Will sat aside his cup and reached out to lay his hand on Hannibal’s knee in reassurance. “As painful as it is, I’d rather know than not. Thank you for not holding back.”

“Will…” Hannibal wore that expression that Will hadn’t entirely deciphered, despite all the time they’d spent together. Hesitant, uncertain, and somehow calculating all at once. He opened his arms in invitation, and Will pounced on it, awkwardly climbing atop his lap, legs splayed wide over Hannibal’s hips. He squeezed tight, forestalling the return of his sadness ebbing close.

Hannibal ran his fingers through Will’s hair, the tips of his nails scratching against his scalp comfortingly. “I fear that I have held back from you,” he said.

Will lifted his head for their eyes to meet and his gaze was drawn downwards to Hannibal’s mouth. Suddenly, just like that, the air grew thick between them. Breathing hitched in his throat and his hips gave a little, involuntary thrust. The movement drew a rough sound from Hannibal’s throat. His hold on Will tightened almost to the point of pain, but Will didn’t mind; it was exciting.

“How?” Will asked. He wasn’t sure what he was even asking. The thread of their conversation was lost in the pounding of his heart.

“There are things from my own training,” Hannibal said, voice taut. His fingers loosened to brush down Will’s spine, coming to rest at the small of his back to stroke back and forth over the sliver of exposed skin. “Things I had thought unimportant, until now.” One hand lifted, finger tracing the shell of Will’s ear and down his cheek. The tickling touch stopped at the corner of his mouth, following the outline of his bottom lip. “I didn’t know.”

Will huffed a breathless laugh, turning his head into Hannibal’s hand, kiss pressed to his damp palm. “I thought you knew everything.”

But Hannibal didn’t laugh. Will had never seen him so serious, and his own gaiety gave way in the face of it. His smile fell, lips parted against Hannibal’s hand on pure instinct, like when he’d touched himself. Going with what felt good. To let his open mouth drag against Hannibal’s skin, earning a gasp for his efforts, a tremor in Hannibal’s thighs.

“I’ll admit I had thought so as well, until I came to know you.” Hannibal nuzzled Will’s cheek and murmured, “You have shattered any illusions I held in that regard.”

Will stroked his fingers over Hannibal’s lips. He tipped his head to the side, and Hannibal leaned into meet him, their hands falling out of the way to tangle between them as their mouths met. 

It sent sparks through Will, that simple touch, a fire catching in his belly and radiating outward. Hannibal’s mouth parted, warm breath ghosting over Will’s skin, and he licked his lips before pressing another kiss to Will’s. “Open your mouth a little,” he said.

“Like this?” Will tried again, wetter this time when their lips met. Hannibal hummed his approval, parted lips slotting up with Will’s, the tip of his tongue rolling against slick skin. Will tried to mimic the movement and their tongues dragged together, wet and messy.

Will had no idea what he was doing, but it felt absolutely divine. A secret, something only for the two of them to share. Told not with words but in this new and exciting language of panting mouths pressed close. Inelegant but irresistible, the meeting of lips and teeth against sensitive skin, swallowing up every sound made by the other and greedily demanding more with possessive swipes of their tongues licking into one another, laying claim to new territory.

Hannibal’s fingers pressed into his temple, and Will caught glimpses of a dozen memories--first kisses, dry and chaste; the passionate open mouths and searching tongues of new lovers; slow, familiar kisses that almost seemed to convey affection as eloquently as any words ever could. And through it all, Hannibal seeking out the spots in Will’s mouth to make him shudder in delight, while his fingers continued their exploration of Will’s skin, higher up his back now, palm splayed on his spine.

Will pulled back, crouching over Hannibal’s lap. He was reluctant to part from Hannibal, but the throbbing in his penis was impossible to ignore. Hannibal’s arms clung to him, his mouth opening hungrily to suck Will’s lip between his teeth, and Will groaned, shivery and hot all over. He wanted to sink into Hannibal’s embrace, as close as he could be. Closer, even, why couldn’t they be closer? But the demands of his body dragged him away.

“I--” he tried, and was distracted by the swipe of Hannibal’s tongue across his palate. Will lifted his head so he could speak, but Hannibal traded Will’s lips for the skin of his neck. And Will had forgotten how that had felt, that intense, rippling pleasure teased out by the scrape of teeth and rough facial hair against his throat. He whimpered and sagged against Hannibal, arms loose around his shoulders. “Hannibal, I have to--I need to go use the shower.”

Hannibal’s hand flexed on his hip and he shook his head. “Stay,” he murmured, ducking in close to steal another, sucking kiss from Will’s mouth. It left him dizzy with want and disoriented. 

“No,” Will protested, half-standing, even as he licked into Hannibal’s mouth and grabbed a handful of his hair to hold him in place. “I have to.”

“There are other forms of stimulation.” Hannibal’s hands moved to cup Will’s buttocks and he gave a firm tug until Will was seated in his lap again, their groins lined up so Will could feel the hard bulge of Hannibal’s penis tucked up next to his own. “Let me show you.” His words were faint with entreaty, his eyes all but pleading for Will’s acquiescence.

Will nodded, breathing unsteadily into Hannibal’s mouth. “Please.” He was going to burn up into nothing if this carried on much longer. “Please, Hannibal, I can’t--”

Hannibal thrust his hips upward. “Oh--!” Will hands spasmed in Hannibal’s hair and shoulder, fingers biting into skin, and Hannibal grunted in pain. “Sorry, I--”

“Shhh.” Hannibal nuzzled at his cheek and rolled his hips again, another delicious drag of friction. Will’s body responded in kind, rutting against him. It was a desperate, dazzling sensation, the two of them moving in tandem, no longer strictly kissing, just tongues and mouths and bodies rubbing together.

“I--I think--” Will wasn’t even sure what he was trying to say, only knew he needed _something_ and couldn’t put it into words. “Hannibal, I need--”

Hannibal bowed his head against Will’s throat, mouth open, tongue tracing tight circles against sensitive skin. His hands down the back of Will’s pants and underwear, palming his cheeks. He curled his fingertips in and pushed Will to him firmly, held him there while circling his hips in a tight, almost painfully rough grind. Will could feel every hard spot of Hannibal carving into every vulnerable, aching place on his body. Those parts of him wished to surrender to the invasion, gladly and entirely.

His orgasm caught him completely off-guard--he hadn’t even known he could do it like this, just the two of them rubbing against one another. Mouth fallen open in surprise on a breathless sob, hips jerking against Hannibal’s hold with each shuddery pulse. He cupped Hannibal’s face in his hands and dragged him in for a kiss, biting down sharply on his bottom lip as the last, electric shocks of pleasure coursed through him. Groaning around the mouthful of slick flesh, drawing his tongue over it in apology. 

Hannibal did not seem to mind it at all. His hands curved possessively over Will’s buttocks and he thrust upward with a stifled cry. Will had to watch his face, how open it was, mouth kiss-red, hair askew, eyes fixed on Will in awe. In that moment, he looked as dazed as Will remembered being, the first time he’d touched himself.

For a long time after, all Will could do was cling to Hannibal with limb and mouth. He was nearly insensate from the pleasure, struck dumb by it, and it all finally made sense, that last puzzle piece he’d been missing. Wondering what it was about Hannibal that was different. That made him want this.

“We’ve made a mess,” Will said, between plucking kisses, half-laughing even through the discomfort of sticky underwear cooling against his skin.

“Yes,” Hannibal agreed. His eyes were soft and fond in a way that felt like a caress. His kisses grazed down Will’s throat again, and Will tipped his head back in aid of the exploration. “Whatever should be done about that?”

Will groaned, partially thanks to the quick, sharp bite Hannibal placed at the crook of his neck, and partially at the thought of having to disentangle themselves in favour of doing _laundry_. “Do you have something I could wear while we clean my clothing.”

There was palpable heat in Hannibal’s gaze when he lifted his head. “Why must you be clothed?”

And oh, Will hadn’t considered, even with all that had just transpired, what it might be like to look and touch without anything between them. His skin at the back of his neck prickled at the suggestion. He scrambled out of Hannibal’s lap, already fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

Hannibal watched him, motionless, and Will slowed his movements instinctively. He let his shirt fall forgotten to the floor and unbuckled his belt, drawing it out with a snick and tossing it aside as well. A nervous energy buzzed beneath his skin when he unbuttoned his pants and began to draw down the zipper. 

There was no stigma associated with nudity in the Community. Will had regularly seen his other yearmates naked in the changing rooms after group activities, both male and female, and in the Senior Centre, when he worked in the baths. But they didn’t know, how vulnerable it made him, to stand there naked under Hannibal’s gaze. How his breath caught and his heart began to race at the first glimpse of Hannibal’s collarbones when he too began to undress, revealing the thatch of hair on his chest.

Will staggered back a step when Hannibal stood. He let his pants drop from nerveless fingers, pooled around his feet. “Can I--” he reached out for the dark curls of Hannibal’s chest, soft between his fingers. Curious, he flicked a thumb across one of Hannibal’s nipples, and was rewarded with a rumble of pleasure vibrating against his palm. “It feels nice?”

Hannibal answered not with words, but by bending his head, tongue flickering out to tease the hardened tip of Will’s own nipple, and it didn’t feel like much. But then Hannibal caught it between his teeth and gave a gentle nip and _oh_ that was nice, stoking heat down his chest into his gut. Hannibal began to suck, rolling Will’s nipple with his tongue, and Will’s hands flailed out to grab ahold of Hannibal to keep himself upright. He whimpered weakly and rocked his hips. 

“Please, Hannibal.” It was almost unbearable, this aching pleasure that was starting to build again between his legs. “It’s too much.”

Hannibal chuckled. His nails scraped lightly up Will’s back and he gave one last scrape of his teeth, teasing out at soft whine from Will. Hannibal left a splotchy trail of red marks up his chest and the line of his neck, before taking Will’s mouth again in a rough kiss. Will did his best to keep up, seizing onto the memories Hannibal had given him. The knowledge was there, if not the practical experience.

They parted, Hannibal tugging him by the hand, and Will stepped out of his pants to follow as he was led upstairs. “The clothing--”

“Will keep. We have hours still before you must leave.”

*

This had gone so far off the rails, beyond what Hannibal could have predicted, that he’d utterly surrendered all control over the situation--what else could he do, with Will spread out naked on his bed, the very embodiment of every fantasy Hannibal had indulged in these past weeks?

A red flush rising up over pale skin, dusky nipples sore from Hannibal’s attentions. The elegant curve of his spine and thrust of his ribcage, and the delicate hollow of vulnerable skin beneath, soft under Hannibal’s palm. Marks left by his mouth painted raspberry pink in the hollow of Will’s arched throat. His cock, long and thick, the slick head bobbing with the weak thrusts of his hips, leaving smears of preseminal fluid on their skin and on the sheets. Will was wanton and unashamed in expressing his desires, rolling Hannibal across the sheets and rising up above him. 

The shape of his mouth hung open, exposing the straight line of his teeth, tongue caught between them in concentration as he lined up their cocks and rocked down. Hannibal reached down to wrap his hand around them both and Will tossed his head back with a hoarse cry, tendons straining. Each drag of their cocks together was perfect agony, unlike anything Hannibal had experienced, even in the memory of such things.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Will hissed between clenched teeth. His nails bit into the skin of Hannibal’s chest, slipping on sweat, and left score marks in their wake. He was too far gone to notice, eyes screwed up tight, buttocks drawn in anticipation of release, and Hannibal wasn’t far behind. Any advantage he thought he might have possessed, based on age and his own solo experimentation meant nothing in the face of this, Will, flesh and blood, in his arms.

Hannibal grabbed him by the back of his neck and yanked him down, and Will met him in a clash of teeth. A quick learner, as he had been in all things, Will had taken what Hannibal had given him in those handful of memories and applied it now. He licked into Hannibal, liquid melting heat trickling between them.

Will’s beauty, the immediacy of him, was far lovelier than any of work of art filed away in the halls of Hannibal’s mind palace. The pleasure sharper than any remembered tryst. He’d long looked down upon those memories with disdain. Sex was so inextricably tied into such a myriad of memories, so frequently it drove mankind to distraction, to acts of desperation and madness.

What lengths would he go to now, to keep Will here with him? Will had said, let Bedelia try to part them and Hannibal’s whole body had burned at thought of the challenge. He could suffer the separation from Mischa, knowing she was living her life in another neighbourhood, but he would not bear the thought of Will anywhere but here, with him.

Will found his completion with Hannibal’s name on his lips, come slicking between them, easing the glide of their cocks with each pump of his Hannibal’s fist. He balled his hands into fists against Hannibal’s chest and rode him through it, face twisted in ecstasy, and when he’d begun to come down from that dizzying height of pleasure, he reached down to tangle his fingers with Hannibal’s, driving him over that same edge.

“I love you,” Will said, into the curve of his neck, curled against him as content and supple as a feline. Hannibal could feel the shape of his smile, pressed into his skin. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Each punctuated with a quick kiss.

Hannibal stroked his clean hand up and down the expanse of Will’s ribcage, goosebumps left trailing his touch, the slowing rise and fall of Will’s chest. Will rose up on one elbow, eyes sleepy and beaming, and said it again.

There was no expectation of reciprocation, no real understanding of the full implication of what he was saying, just that unfiltered, honest expression of his emotions. Hannibal reached up to cup his cheek and pull him down for a kiss. Slower than any which had come before, searching. Each of them finding their footing in this dance. The rough, languid drag of tongue on tongue and Will’s playful nipping bites at the delicate inner flesh of his lip. 

No sliver of space between their bodies, at rest, though not for long. Still, for the moment Hannibal could focus on each individual sensation rather than be swept up in the unrelenting drive towards climax. Their legs tangled together, hair prickling when Will drew the arch of his foot up the inside of Hannibal’s ankle against the grain, toes tickling against his calf. The jut of Will’s pelvic bone nestled against Hannibal’s hip as though they’d been made to fit one another.

When they parted, Will licked his swollen pink lips, eyes dipping drowsily. “I don’t know why I’m so tired, I--” his words broke on a yawn. “I slept well enough last night.”

“Sex can have a soporific effect for some,” Hannibal mused. For him, as well, it seemed. It took more effort with each passing moment to keep his fingers carding through Will’s tumble of curls. His muscles were heavy and weak from their love-making.

“Sex,” Will repeated, grinning brightly again, and settled down at Hannibal’s side. He tilted back his head to kiss the underside of Hannibal’s jaw. “I don’t know how people did anything other than play sex. Do sex?”

Hannibal smiled in helpless, indulgent humour. “Have sex.” He would have to give more of his memories of the act to Will, in aid of understanding. He had been reluctant before, trying to tell himself such memories were unimportant. In honesty he knew it to be jealousy at the idea of Will deriving pleasure from someone other than himself. 

Will moaned, sleepy and sated, and sprawled out over him. “I don’t want to do anything other than have sex with you.”

However there was the undeniable benefit of giving Will that experience now. Free of shame or inhibition, he would gladly attempt to recreate any of the memories Hannibal chose to give him. Though it was not yet ready for a third round, his cock stirred at the thought.

“I feel the same,” he said. “Though perhaps a nap would not go amiss.”

Will murmured something unintelligible in response, already halfway asleep, and Hannibal gave up trying to keep his eyes open any longer.

They slept and woke in the warm glow of afternoon sunlight, already moving together. Hips rolling, hands grasping, lips meeting again and again with more enthusiasm than skill. Will reached his hand to wrap around Hannibal’s cock and pulled too fast and dry. “Touch me, please, Hannibal,” he breathed.

Hannibal fumbled behind himself for the nightstand, grasping until his fingers closed on the edge of the jar he kept there. Cream for his hands, but in the absence of any other lubricant, it would do. He didn’t care to part long enough from Will to go searching for something more suitable. 

Will hissed at the first touched of his hand, cold and slick, but it quickly became a gasp of pleasure. He reached past Hannibal to dip his own hand in the jar before wrapping around Hannibal’s cock again and that, oh...Hannibal couldn’t keep up with kissing any longer, head bowed to rest against Will’s shoulder, breathing in the thick, musky scent of them as he fucked into Will’s fist. 

“Every time,” Will panted. His movements grew frantic, uncoordinated and desperate. “Every time I think it can’t feel any better--”

Hannibal tightened his grip and Will let out a strangled cry. He bit into the salty flesh beneath his mouth and sucked hard enough to bruise the delicate curve of Will’s shoulder when he came. With Will shaking apart under his touch, Hannibal thrilled with anticipation of showing him just how good it could feel. 

“I’m starving,” Will stated after he’d caught his breath. “And sticky.”

“A shower,” Hannibal decided, “and then I’ll fix lunch.”

Will rolled half on top of him, chin digging into Hannibal’s sternum, and he grinned. “I don’t wanna get up.”

Hannibal shoved him off gently and hauled himself up to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “I’m afraid I need a moment to recover, and besides, we’ve expended a great deal of energy which you’ll need to replenish if you wish to continue.” He arched a playful brow over his shoulder.

Will heaved a melodramatic smile, but he followed Hannibal into the bathroom without further protest. The shower stall was crowded with the two of them squeezing in together. They bumped into one another reaching for the soap and shampoo until Will relented and allowed Hannibal to wash his hair for him, scooting around for each to have their turn beneath the spray.

“It is perhaps unflatteringly possessive of me, but I like the way you smell after you’ve used my toiletries,” Hannibal murmured in his ear, as they prepared lunch, bumping together in the kitchen.

Will was dressed in his clothing. It was ill-fitting, Will all-over smaller. His hands were swallowed up by the ends of Hannibal’s sleeves and he had to roll up the ankle of the pants, but that too sparked that possessive part of him, not only at the sight of Will, but at the thought of undressing him again.

Will sliced the sweet potato and avocado while Hannibal sautéd the onion and garlic in butter. The fragrance permeated the air, rich and savoury, blending with the bacon sizzling on the back burner. Will pulled himself up on the counter beside the stove, swooping in to steal a bite of fluffy scrambled egg straight from the pan.

“We haven’t done any training at all today,” Will remarked, gaze coy from under his long lashes.

Hannibal flipped off the heat and turned to face him. “And what would you like to learn?”

Will leaned forwards, arms draped over Hannibal’s shoulders, and kissed him slowly, tasting of fennel and sage. “You pick.”

There was a subtle challenge in the words and in Will’s eyes, _know me._ Pick the right memory, as if purposely crafted for Will’s enjoyment. There were still hundreds of thousands to chose from, even when they exchanged sometimes dozens or hundreds a day. It would take years for them to go through them all.

“Very well.” He brought his hand to Will’s temple and waited until Will’s eyes had fluttered closed before shutting his own.

She was on the open water with the wind cutting hard through the sails. It was the end of October, with the first bite of winter chill in the air. Her sweater was soft and warm and she tucked her hands inside her sleeves, pulled up the collar around her neck and sunk into it, leaned back to watch the setting sun.

More than the beauty of the lake rippling under the wind, refracting the light, more than the splendour of the sunset setting the sky on fire with red and orange and purple fading into pearlescent pink, more than the rich, nutty flavour of the coffee, it was how she’d felt that had Hannibal choosing this memory.

She’d made the boat her home, out of necessity at first, and she’d been so afraid at the time, but quickly she’d come to prefer the quiet and solitude it offered. She could spend whole weeks without seeing another soul, living on the dry goods in the pantry and bottled water. 

All her life she’d never even considered that there was any other way to live than with the claustrophobic press of others on all sides. In apartment buildings stacked like sardines or even the suburbs with barely any breathing room between the yards, always all too aware of the nervous, chaotic energy of too many people in too little space. There had never seemed any solution, she’d never even stopped to wonder if maybe it wasn’t normal to feel this way.

Now, with only the sound of the wind and the lapping of the water against the side of the boat--you’ll go crazy out there, her father told her, no company other than your mind--she didn’t need any other company. Maybe she’d been crazy all along and was just starting to feel sane...

“That wasn’t exactly what I meant,” Will said, barely more than a breath, when they parted, eyes cast downward. Embarrassed to have that private longing exposed. Pleased to be known. His cheeks were flushed, and down his throat where Hannibal’s shirt hung loose around his neck. 

“If I gave you any of those memories, we’d never eat,” Hannibal said. “And the eggs are going cold.”

They ate ravenously, between stolen kisses, knees knocking beneath the table. Will couldn’t keep his hands or feet to himself, though Hannibal wouldn’t have it any other way. Will kept drawing fingers up Hannibal’s neck to toy with his hair, and down again to lace their fingers. Toes skated across the inner arch of his foot, around the jut of his ankle bone, teasingly light and maddeningly innocent.

“How do you get away with this?” Will asked, brushing across the stubble on Hannibal’s jaw.

“There are many privileges we enjoy. You could grow yours as well, if you like, or keep your hair long. In fact, I wish you would.” Hannibal tugged on one of the longish locks.

“I’d thought it must be lonely, living out here by yourself,” Will said, “but I think that must be one of the privileges, too.”

“I admit there are times when I’ve longed for more stimulation, but there was no one here to provide it after Mischa had gone, until you. Given the choice between living a farce of a life among the sheep outside, and living in solitude, I will always choose the latter.”

Will had the beginnings of a queer smile on his face, and his eyes took on that far away look he got when lost in thought. “I wish I didn’t have to wait until the Ceremony of Twenty until I can live here.”

It was possible that Hannibal could convince Bedelia of the necessity of Will’s living here in aid of his training. Just considering it, that hungry possessiveness reared its head. However, given that she was already expressing concern over Will’s well-being, he found unlikely that she would grant such a request. Better not to mention it for the time being. Hannibal would work on that problem until he could persuade her to come around to his way of thinking.

“I wouldn’t want to leave Abigail really, anyway.”

“Will, you must know they won’t allow you to keep her.” Hannibal hated to tarnish Will’s happiness in this moment, but it was necessary for him to understand both the benefits and drawbacks of their position.

“I know.” Will pushed his fork across his plate, sullen. “Beverly said they were going to have to move her to the Uncertains soon if she didn’t show any improvement. I don’t understand! She’s perfectly fine at home, but as soon as Beverly takes her back to the centre in the morning she fusses all day. I wish--I wish I could bring her here, to stay with us.”

Hannibal had long ago discarded the possibility of raising a child, but that did not mean that he hadn’t wished otherwise. There was no use in indulging in such fantasies, no matter how vividly he could imagine Will as a father, how the two of them could raise her properly, without conditioning or medication, to appreciate the world the way it was meant to be appreciated. As he failed to do with Mischa.

“I’m sorry.” Will wiped a hand over his face. “I know it’s childish.”

“It’s not.” Hannibal tightened his hold on Will’s hand. “I would give you anything you desired, were it in my power.”

Will smiled weakly through his melancholy. He got up from his seat and Hannibal scooted back his seat to make room when Will climbed into his lap. “But you do give me what I desire, all the time,” he said, bringing Hannibal’s hand up to his face.

“Shall I choose for you, again?” Hannibal asked, but Will shook his head.

“They’re lovely, the memories you choose,” Will said, “but I want more of the ones you used to give me. Your favourite memories. Show me one of those, Hannibal.”

Swept up in the intensity of his love for Will, Hannibal snared him in breathless kiss. “Anything you desire.”

They spent the afternoon in bed, Hannibal sharing all the memories he’d clung to jealously for years. Memories he hadn’t dared give even to Mischa, for fear of how they would dull in his mind. With Will, he had no choice in the matter; any pleasure he took from basking in those memories paled in comparison to the pure joy of being seen by Will, and known.

Listening to [Partitas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KiRT4w5NO4o) on the harpsichord as it was meant to be. The quivering plucked notes vibrating in his teeth, his chest, his very veins. Hannibal had anticipated Will growing fidgety long before the performance ran its course. But he lay there still under Hannibal’s touch, their hands clasped between them, so perfectly still he might be dead but for the rise and fall of his chest. 

Neither entirely wakeful or asleep, Hannibal imagined Will wandering from his own mind palace into Hannibal’s, the strains of music following him from one room to the next, and Hannibal flung them open gladly. It was no longer the two of them inhabiting the memories of others, but experiencing them as if brand new, together.

Will’s steps echoing on the mosaiced floor of the Norman chapel; down the narrow streets in the drizzling rain of Florence in springtime, arms locked together; wandering the galleries of the Uffizi and Will’s beauty was never more apparent than when Hannibal saw him there. In his mind’s eye, he knew he would forever be recasting those works with Will’s countenance.

Blinking their eyes open, hours later, to the dim light of dusk, Will cupped Hannibal’s cheek and brushed soft, closed-mouthed kisses to his lips and at the corner of each eyelid. He didn’t speak. 

Would Will still regard him with such unfettered affection were Hannibal to share the other brand of memories he treasured? The urges which had driven him to alter Garret’s medication and inform him of the pregnancy resultant of his stolen seed. Fitting, he supposed, that it was Garret’s child, orphaned by Hannibal’s actions, who Will now cared for. Could Will ever understand the idle curiosity that spurred him to take such measures, if only to alleviate the daily monotony of the Community?

And might Will forgive Hannibal for using him in the same manner? Seducing him ever so gradually away from his comfortable, if hollow existence. Exposing this failed experiment for the farce that it truly was and watching the scales fall from Will’s eyes.

These were the thoughts that kept Hannibal company after Will had left for the evening. These days, his absence was felt as keenly as the knife’s edge. His solitude was short-lived. Shortly after Will departed, a knock sounded on the door. Hannibal’s only visitor besides Will was Bedelia, and her visits were few and far between. There was a faint buzzing of fear at the nape of his neck, but there was no way she could know what had transpired between the two of them.

It wasn’t Bedelia at the door. Freddie stood there, a file folder in her hand and a grim expression on her face, and Hannibal beckoned her inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for some reason, no matter what I do, the link isn't working in the text to the Partitas, even though I had no trouble linking the Chopin earlier in the fic? Who knows. Anyway, here's the link! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KiRT4w5NO4o


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I would like to warn that there are dark times ahead. It's about on par with the violence and general fucked up nature of things that happen on the show, but if you're concerned it might be triggering, please check out the warning at the beginning of the fic!

Freddie was in the garden again when Will left, greeting him with a pasted on smile that looked more like a sneer. Even the sight of her couldn’t bring Will down. He pedalled home at a leisurely pace, lost in his own memories for once. Though his body was exhausted from pleasure, it wouldn’t take much effort to grow hard again, with the proper motivation.

He thought it would be difficult to sleep, but he fell asleep quickly and soundly through the whole night and didn’t remember his dreams. In the morning he wore Abigail as was his routine, passing her little snatches of memories--the thick fur of a German Spitz and nuzzling kisses to her cheek, the bright colours in a shifting kaleidoscope, being held close to a mother’s breast--and she cooed in delight.

His soaring mood was brought low again by the sight of his Mother’s face across the breakfast table. She’d been to medical and had a series of pills to take each day, in addition to her injection. Now she dutifully took them all. Had they promised her some sort of magical cure? Did she have any inkling of the suffering she would endure?

Any thoughts of spending today lost in pleasure were forgotten, and he spent the ride to Hannibal’s lost in thoughts of his mother’s illness.

Will could tell there was something wrong the moment he stepped into the dwelling. He eased the door closed behind him and slid the lock into place. That heavy hanging dark over the home had him on tiptoe down the stairs.

Hannibal sat in the darkened study, chin propped in hand. “Hannibal?” Will approached him cautiously, spotting the moment when Hannibal came back to him from wherever he’d been. Will took the seat across from him, hand on Hannibal’s knee. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s something I need to show you,” Hannibal said. “I had wished to spare you awhile longer, but circumstances have changed.”

“What? What is it?”

Silent, Hannibal stood and went to the tablet on his wall. He pushed a button and spoke into the microphone. “Bring up this morning’s Release from the New Child centre.”

“Yes, Receiver,” an electronic voice responded. Will sat up straighter, alert. Beverly had mentioned twins being born last week, and that one would be Released soon. He’d never known that Hannibal had access to such things. What else could he request?

The screen of the tablet flickered to life, projecting an image into the room, life sized. There was Beverly with the twin in scales side by side. “Oh thank goodness,” she exclaimed with a little laugh. “I was concerned they’d be the same weight again. You can take that one back to be bathed and fed.”

A young man, likely a volunteer, took the larger of the two and left the room, while Beverly picked up the other, cradling the infant to her chest. “Hey there,” she said softly, carrying the infant to a padded table across the room. “Just another couple ounces and you would be the one staying with us.”

Will made himself refrain from protesting at the unfairness of an infant being sent off the Elsewhere simply for their weight. He leaned forward in his chair, craning his neck to try to get a better view of what it was Beverly was doing. Preparing a needle, measuring the amount of liquid within.

“What is she doing?” he asked, voice almost giving out on him. When he received no answer, he tried again, louder. “Hannibal, what is she _doing_?”

In the recording, Beverly stroked her hand over the infant’s head, dusted in a fine layer of hair. She bent in close and pressed needle to its scalp. “I know, I know,” she said, when the infant began to cry, tiny face going bright red. “It’s not very comfortable, but I’m almost done.” She pressed the plunger and the infant cried harder, loud wails that echoed in Hannibal’s home.

Will’s fingers dug into the arms of his chair painfully. He didn’t want to watch, but he was unable to look away. It was only a matter of seconds before the crying slowed and faded into pitiful whimpers. The infant’s flailing limbs calmed, and then fell limp to the table. Its chest stilled altogether, as Beverly retrieved a cardboard box and made a notation on the clipboard she carried. 

“It’s dying!” Will shouted, rising to his feet in protest. “She’s killing it, Hannibal, how can she--”

“She doesn’t understand,” Hannibal said.

“But it’s stopped moving, she has to see that, she has to know there’s something _wrong_. We have to do something! How can you just watch this?”

“And all done!” Beverly said, lifting the body and placing it inside the box.

“What is there for us to do?” Hannibal asked.

Will’s body moved entirely without his permission. He grabbed his chair by the arm and hurled it at the giant window overlooking the sea. Hannibal watched him, expressionless, and that only infuriated Will all the more. He reached out for the nearest shelf, swiping all the books to the floor.

“This--is all so fucking pointless,” he growled, not even knowing where the words came from, some part of a memory Hannibal had given him.

Hannibal made no sound of protest, no move to intervene. He watched Will tear through the room, upending the coffee table, kicking over Hannibal’s chair. He sent the papers on the desk flying across the room to litter the floor. A teacup on the edge toppled over the side, shattering to pieces, scattered over the papers.

The sketches caught Will’s eye. Snatches of cityscapes Will hadn’t yet seen, strangers from memories, or people from the Community. Many of them were of Will himself--in the garden beneath the willow, seated at the piano with fingers splayed over the keys, or curled up with a book by the window. 

Mixed in between were sketches of Mischa, and it took Will a moment to realise he was seeing sketches of things that had never happened, at least, not where Hannibal could have observed them. They chronicled the time since she’d been relocated, an imaging of what her life might be there.

Will crouched down to rifle through them, shaking loose the shards of porcelain, contrite even through his anger and grief. Sketches of her at the Ceremony of Twenty, receiving her official badge of completion of training--Hannibal had drawn her being assigned as a botanist. 

“She was skilled at gardening,” Hannibal said, coming to crouch beside Will. He flicked aside the remains of the teacup to pick up a sketch of Mischa in his garden, bent to smell the Jasmine. “I think she would have enjoyed the work.”

There were drawings of her with a partner, and others with children. They looked like her and like Hannibal, with sleek shiny straight hair, and the cheekbones and eyes the two of them shared. It was impossible for an adult to be paired with their own birth children, but it was Hannibal’s fantasy. Will supposed he could draw whatever he wanted.

“How can you do this, Hannibal?” he asked, head slumped sideways to rest on Hannibal’s shoulder. “To die of old age or of illness is one thing, but that baby…” A powerful wave of grief overtook him, leaving him straining to breath around the weight on his chest. 

Hannibal’s arm came around his shoulders and Will crumpled against him gratefully. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair of me. It’s not your fault, I know.” He tucked his nose in the hollow of Hannibal’s throat, and breathed deeply that well-loved scent. He couldn’t close his eyes, because if he did, he knew he’d see that baby slowly dying all over again.

“I don’t mind taking the brunt of your anger, if it helps you to reconcile yourself to these atrocities.” Hannibal’s cheek rested against his hair.

Will fought against the sob that tried to claw its way from his chest. It tore in the back of his throat, tears seeping from the corners of his eyes. He pushed his face against the smooth fabric of Hannibal’s shirt. “I don’t know how it could,” he said. His voice broke halfway through, and there were the sobs. “How can I ever look at Beverly again, knowing what she did? How can I go home to my mother knowing how she’s going to suffer and die? I can’t even comfort her, she wouldn’t even understand it, Hannibal--”

“Shhh.” Hannibal stroked down the line of his back. “I think you already know you can’t blame Beverly for what she’s done. I think much of your anguish stems from that fact. That an innocent child died for no reason. That his killer did not act out of hatred or passion, nor did she understand the impact of her actions.”

“You’re supposed to advise them, Hannibal, why can’t you tell them to stop?”

“My advice holds only so much sway with the Elders. When they too lack an understanding of death, nothing I say can convince them of the immorality of their actions. They have no morality; they have their rules, and they’ve been taught as long as they follow them, all will be well.”

“Then _why_?” Will shouted, jerking away from him. “You say it’s so we don’t repeat the crimes of the past, but what about the crimes we’re committing right now? We’re worse than those people from before, because we know what’s right and what’s wrong and we still let this happen.”

“And how would you have us stop it?” Hannibal wondered. Even caught up in his anger, Will knew it was an honest question, and of course Hannibal was right, but that didn’t make it any better.

“I hate this place,” Will spat. “The rules and the drugs and all the lies they tell themselves. Maybe they don’t know any better now, but someone, once, at the founding of the Community decided that it was so imperative they stamp out any sign of uniqueness, anything that made us special or different or interesting, that they’d rather murder infants.”

“Mankind is hardly infallible, and this would not be the first culture to fall apart beneath the weight of its failures and inadequacies.” 

“I wish it would. I wish it would burn to the ground.” Will could barely see through the haze of his fierce, vicious hatred for the people who had made this place. “We could go, Hannibal, you and me. We could take Abigail and we could leave this place. Go somewhere we could be together.”

He’d spoken the words without fully thinking them through, but Hannibal looked as though he were actually considering it, and Will’s heart leapt into his throat. “Could we, Hannibal?”

“Do you know what would happen, if we were to pass beyond the boundaries of the Community?” 

Will shook his head, mute. Hannibal took his hand and Will allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and led across the room to the bookshelf beneath the stair. He pulled down a large book called an Atlas, and laid it open on the coffee table to a page near the front. It was a map of the Community, which Will had never before seen. Bordered by the sea to the east, mountains to the north and west, and a vast desert to the south.

“There is a Boundary of Memory constructed just past the edge of the Community--towers that mark every mile.” He traced his finger over the map in a rough circle. “If the Receiver of Memory were to go past this barrier, all the memories held within would be released back into the Community. It happened once before, when I was told Mischa was transferred to another Community, north of the mountains.”

“You mean--they would remember? My family and my friends and everyone?”

Hannibal nodded. “That is correct.”

“So…” Will held tight to Hannibal’s hand. “So if we both went, together…”

“All the memories we both hold would become theirs, as well, yes. It happened once before when Mischa--” Hannibal fell silent and Will glanced up at him, startled to see tears caught in his lashes. His gaze was fixed on the shattered remains of the teacup.

“Hannibal?” Will moved closer instinctively. He glanced back and forth between the shards and Hannibal’s face. “What is it?”

“You are familiar with the young woman in your year who was appointed to the courts.”

“Freddie?” Will asked. Knowing that she was somehow involved in whatever had distressed Hannibal only made Will’s anxiety worse. “What did she do?”

“Freddie was spying on you, hoping to catch a glimpse of your training.”

“Interesting ethics for someone in her position, but I’m not surprised. She’s always been in everyone’s business.” All the times she’d suggested that Will didn’t belong and he supposed, in retrospect, she was correct, but he’d always felt the tingle of apprehension at her words. _What if someone listened to her? What if they noticed? What if I’m Released?_

“Indeed,” Hannibal said, blinking away the moisture in his eyes. “Though it provided me with the opportunity to blackmail her. I wanted to know what had become of Mischa, after they’d taken her away.”

Without being told, Will had the sickly feeling he already knew what Freddie had uncovered. It was why Hannibal had shown him the infant being Released. Hannibal’s grief was a sinking sensation in Will’s gut, a cold, heavy weight like being pulled underwater and unable to break the surface.

“They…” Will almost couldn’t bring himself to say it. “They Released her.”

Hannibal reached up to brush back the few tears that had trailed down his cheeks, and it wasn’t that Will had thought him incapable of feeling--he knew that to be categorically untrue--but it unnerved him nonetheless, to see Hannibal reduced to tears.

“Bedelia brought her case before the judges. Apparently Mischa was hysterical and refused to acknowledge any wrongdoing on her part. Jack sentenced her to be Released, and a Nurturer at the Senior Centre called Alana administered the fatal dose.”

Will couldn’t think of a single thing to say to express how sorry he was, so he held his tongue. He wondered if Hannibal even remembered he was there, having that far away look on his face again when he spoke. “I comforted them. When her memories were returned to the Community, it was chaos, and I helped them through it.”

“It would serve them right, to suffer through it again without us to help,” Will said fervently. “They deserve far worse.”

“Far, far worse.” Just beneath the surface, there was something dark and murderous bubbling inside Hannibal. Frightening though it was, Will couldn’t shy away. The extent of his feelings for Hannibal wouldn’t allow for it.

“Show me,” he said, scooting nearer, tentative. “What you’re thinking.”

Hannibal allowed him closer, an arm around Will’s back and hot hand on the nape of his neck, but he said, “Oh My Love, I don’t know that I could bear losing you today, as well.”

Will ducked in to kiss him chastely on the cheek. “Don’t you trust me?”

“It’s not as simple as that.” Hannibal sat up, putting a bit of distance between them. “Though you know I cannot deny you anything.” He brought his hand up and Will shuddered at the touch and the sheer force of the memories that passed between them.

All the terribly inventive ways that humans once had to kill one another. The methodology--knives and guns, poison and strangulation and drowning, all sorts of blunt force trauma, electrocution, and more. This one that Hannibal had chosen preferred stabbing. The physical sensation, his hand wrapped around the knife, plunged in to the hilt, with the hot, sticky spill of blood, shining bright red over his fist and down his arm. The air was thick with a sweet metallic scent.

Beyond all of that was the feeling it gave him, watching the light go out of their eyes. There was a moment, right before what he did became permanent, and time and again he wondered if he was capable of crossing that line, and yet he always did. It was accompanied by a stomach-churning rush of power, similar to arousal though different in a way he couldn’t articulate, but it left him craving more every time.

It was a hard feeling for Will to shake off, when Hannibal let him surface from the memory. As if he’d been trapped inside the another skin, with his own thoughts swimming just under the surface but too far out of reach. Disturbing, yes, but fascinating in its own way, for how very abnormal it was. Will clung to the arm of the sofa, struggling to catch his breath.

Hannibal went to the window where the rolling waves glistened in the sunlight. There was a disconnect between that and the heavy, pervasive darkness in Hannibal’s home. It seemed impossible that everyone in the Community was still out there going about their daily routine, cheerfully oblivious.

“And that’s what you want?” Will asked. “To kill them all.”

“Those who are responsible,” Hannibal said. “Yes, I would relish taking their lives.”

“Alana, and Bedelia...and my father,” Will finished weakly.

“They don’t deserve to live.”

“You told me Beverly didn’t know what she was doing. They don’t know any better than she does.” 

“I don’t care,” Hannibal said, and it was the closest to shouting Will had ever heard from him. “You wished to know what I would do to them, and there you have it.”

Will came to stand behind him. He was hesitant, almost fearful of touching, not sure if it was allowed, but he longed for it. Carefully, slowly, he leaned his forehead to the hollow between Hannibal’s shoulderblades and let out a shuddery sigh of relief when Hannibal leaned into him. “I love you, Hannibal,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry for Mischa. If it--would it bring you peace, to kill them?”

“No, but it would give me satisfaction.”

Will shook his head, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “My father, Hannibal--”

“Enough,” Hannibal said. He turned to pull Will into his arms, hand on Will’s throat turning his face up for a kiss. “I hadn’t wished to cause you such distress. It was a fantasy, nothing more.”

And that was all the more they spoke of it, but when the hour grew late, Will began to panic at the idea of going home. “I don’t know if I can be near them, knowing--don’t make me go back there tonight, let me stay with you.”

Hannibal called Bedelia’s line and Will listened to his soothing voice explaining that he’d shared some particularly difficult memories with Will today, and he was distraught. How Hannibal feared that it would cause Will’s family distress to see him in such a state. None of it was strictly a lie.

There lingered a shadow over Hannibal that filled Will with helpless sorrow every time he looked at him. He’d shared with Will some pleasant memories in hope of distracting him, but throughout all those others’ memories Will could sense Hannibal’s own emotions, too powerful for him to keep from bleeding over. The red-hot rage and his desire for revenge, but beyond that an all-consuming sensation that Will couldn’t entirely place. Similar to how he’d felt when he’d learned of his mother’s illness, but so much worse.

Will turned his teacup in his hand. A soothing blend, Hannibal had said, with rich undertones of caramel and vanilla, and more of the whiskey, when he’d set Will on the sofa with a blanket around his shoulders. “What was Mischa’s favourite tea?”

Hannibal’s lips quirked up in an involuntary smile, there and gone in the blink of an eye. “She hated tea,” Hannibal said. “Hot flower water, she called it.” From the memories Hannibal had shared of her, Will could imagine the face she must have pulled, vivid and full of life in his mind’s eye. He’d never known her, but felt her loss profoundly all the same. “When I gave her the memory of coffee, however, she was desperate to try it for herself. She was very opinionated.”

Will scooted closer to Hannibal on the sofa and rested his head on his shoulder.

“I cannot help but feel that I let her down,” Hannibal said. “She was brash and naive, and ready to dive headlong into any and all memories I gave her. It was up to me to ensure I didn’t overwhelm her or show her too much of the pain and sadness too soon, but I was eager to share everything with her. I longed for her to understand the world the same way I did.”

“ _They_ took her away, Hannibal,” Will said, putting his hand over Hannibal’s and squeezing. “You can’t blame yourself.”

“Can’t I?” Hannibal was far away again, somewhere Will couldn’t reach him. 

Will pushed into his side and rubbed his cheek against Hannibal’s arm. “I love you,” he said, because he had no idea what else to say and no way of making any of it better.

Hannibal kissed the top of his head, and then down his temple and cheek. Slow, at first, but growing quicker and more heated the closer he got to Will’s mouth. It felt different from before, an urgency entirely apart from Hannibal’s physical desire for him. Will did his best to keep up, hands on Hannibal’s neck to steady him and opening to the onslaught of Hannibal’s rough kisses.

His mouth was a tempting bright red and swollen when he pulled back, and his eyes dark in the shadow of the room. Unreadable as they drank in Will’s features. All at once Hannibal moved down to press his face against Will’s growing hardness.

“What--”

“Let me,” Hannibal murmured distractedly. He jerked open Will’s belt and slacks and jerked them down with his underwear, just enough to expose him. Dazed and aroused, Will nodded his consent. Hannibal dragged his tongue up Will’s penis and Will’s eyes rolled up in his head.

“Oh my--what are you--” Will’s words died on a strangled moan when Hannibal took the tip of his penis in his mouth, and gave one hard, long suck. And then it didn’t matter _what_ Hannibal was doing, only how it felt. The slow drag of Hannibal’s lips up and down his sensitive skin, taking Will deep. 

Will’s heart thundered in his chest with mingled desire and grief and powerful arousal, such a mess of emotion it was impossible to sort through or make sense of. He surrendered to the purely physical sensation of Hannibal’s mouth on him, grabbing blindly at Hannibal’s hair. His hips bucked forward and Hannibal pulled back, coughing and licking his lips.

“Sorry,” Will said, breathless and fearful Hannibal would stop now.

Hannibal rose up to lick his mouth open, and as they kissed, brought his hand to Will’s temple. Will caught a glimpse of a handful of memories, too many too quickly for him to grasp onto any of them in great detail, but it was enough to provide him with a whole wealth of awareness of what he could do with his body, and Hannibal’s, and the accompanying vocabulary.

When Hannibal broke away to take Will in his mouth once again, Will cried out in pleasure. _Yes_ this was better, Hannibal taking him deeper still into the wet, warm channel of his mouth, tongue flicking along the underside. 

Cocksucking, his mind supplied for him and Will even liked the sound of it, nearly as delicious as the feel of Hannibal tonguing the slit at the head of his penis. “Cock,” he said it out loud, trying it out, and he liked the sound of it. 

Hannibal pulled off him with a loud smacking sound, and gave him a heated look that shot straight through Will’s gut, like Hannibal could devour him whole. Seeing it, Will couldn’t stand not having Hannibal’s mouth on him any longer. He was so close. “Please, Hannibal.”

Hannibal swallowed him down, as far as he could take Will without gagging, and sucked for all he was worth. And oh, that was his foreskin that Hannibal licked at so delicately, swirling his tongue inside to tease at the impossibly sensitive exposed head of his cock. Every muscle in Will’s body drew painfully taut as Hannibal brought him closer to release, and then it hit him all at once. His body shook with the violence of it, but Hannibal kept his mouth fixed on him the entire time, suckling Will’s pleasure from him.

“Come here, come _here_ ,” Will urged, pulling at Hannibal’s arms and shoulders to haul him up. His whole body was buzzing with the tingling aftershocks of his orgasm and the intensity of emotion radiating between them. He fixed his mouth on Hannibal’s desperately, a messy, trembling tangle of limbs and tongue.

Will reached between them to unfasten Hannibal’s pants and shove his hand inside. Hannibal’s cock was heavy and impossibly hot in his palm. Breathless and dizzy from Hannibal’s kisses, still strung out on the pleasure of his orgasm, mind lit up with the promise of all the things they could do, Will jerked him off. 

The grip was too tight and dry, and the angle awkward, but Hannibal thrust against him. He barely trembled when he came with a low, almost wounded noise, and Will wouldn’t have known he’d come at all if not for the proof of it across his fist and belly. Hannibal clung to him still, weighing him down to the sofa. Strange, how feeling pinned down and confined was something he relished, when it was Hannibal doing it. Will stroked his clean fingers through Hannibal’s hair and wrapped his legs around Hannibal’s, holding him close and tight.

“I won’t let them take me from you.” Will had made the promise before, but he hadn’t fully appreciated then the lengths he’d go to to keep it. Now he meant it with all his heart and soul.

*

Waking in the cold early morning light, sprawled across Hannibal’s chest, Will forgot where he was and who they were. For a moment, in the liminal space between dreams and wakefulness, they weren’t prisoners in this nightmare Community. There were just two men who’d chosen to be together, who could live their lives however they chose.

Hannibal’s nails scratched gently against his scalp. Will purred in delight; it was a remarkably arousing sensation, and Hannibal must have known the effect it had on him. Hips working, grinding his cock against Hannibal’s thigh until Hannibal rolled him onto his back and splayed his legs open wide to rest between them. It was going to be over too fast. It was always over too fast, but Will couldn’t stop racing towards it.

“Let me,” he panted, and had to turn his head aside from Hannibal’s demanding kisses to speak. “Roll over.”

Hannibal obeyed and Will pounced, tossing aside the sheets to paint his body in kisses. “I want to suck your cock.”

“I didn’t expect you to reciprocate so soon,” Hannibal protested.

Will stopped his downward progress long enough to glare up at him with an arched brow. “You are kidding?” he asked. Hannibal’s nipple was right there before his eyes so he bit down on it, and Hannibal let out a low hiss.

“I only meant that anything you do is pleasurable to me. While I might not have the experience, I’ve been aware of these things for substantially longer than you have.”

“How can you talk like that?” Will wondered, ringing his tongue around the tightened nub. His hand skated downward through the coarse belly hair, the tips of his fingers just brushing through the thatch of pubic hair below. “When you’re touching me I can barely remember my name.” He took Hannibal’s cock in hand and gave a languorous pump. “Am I doing something wrong?”

Hannibal’s eyes fluttered shut. “As I was trying to say,” he murmured, tendons in his neck standing out in stark relief, “I take pleasure from your touch, regardless what form it takes.”

“Uh huh.” Will rolled his eyes fondly. He let his mouth follow the course laid out by his hand. It was clear that Hannibal was apprehensive on his behalf, but Will couldn’t say why. Hannibal had enjoyed sucking his cock, why wouldn’t Will enjoy it, too? And besides which, it was only fair to give Hannibal that same earth-shattering orgasm he’d given Will.

Hannibal’s fingers clenched in the sheets when Will licked along the crease of his pelvis. There was nothing remarkable about the taste or texture of his skin, if Will considered it objectively, but that didn’t explain why he wanted to keep going, licking and sucking all the way down until he was breathing over Hannibal’s cock, closer to it than he’d ever been before. It was fascinating, watching how the foreskin eased back with his fist, the slippery slick head of his cock, purple and leaking. 

Will remembered how it had felt, Hannibal licking him there, and flicked his tongue out experimentally. Hannibal’s breathing went shallow and the muscles in his thighs bunched up under Will’s hand. Another broad lick along the underside of his cock and Hannibal’s hips leapt from the sheet. Will grinned; at least he wasn’t the only incapable of controlling himself. His own cock ached between his thighs.

Carefully he closed his mouth around the head of Hannibal’s cock, and it was so much bigger than it seemed in his hand. His jaw stretched wide to accommodate the girth, and still he couldn’t take more than a couple of inches before he started to gag.

“You don’t have to--” Hannibal protested.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Will tightened his fist on Hannibal’s cock and said, “I want to.” He tried again, taking Hannibal deep enough to meet his hand. It was strange and uncomfortable, and yet perversely he had no desire to stop. He jerked his own cock off in time with the bobbing of his head, already leaking enough to slick the way.

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice quavered. He brought a hand up to lace through Will’s hair and pulled urgently. “I’m going to come.”

Will moaned around his mouthful as if to say _isn’t that the point_ and that set Hannibal’s off. His cock to jerked with the first pulse of come and Will spluttered in surprise and pulled off. The next pulse caught him across his chin, and then in his hair, and Hannibal looked up at him with glazed eyes. Will swallowed what he could of the stuff, thicker and saltier than he’d expected, and decidedly unpleasant, and pulled a face.

“I tried to warn you,” Hannibal said. Will scowled at him, but he couldn’t hold the expression for long when Hannibal reached down to tangled his fingers with Will’s and squeezed tighter. Will’s chin fell to his chest, a low groan rippling through him as he started to come, too. He thrust into their fists with each jerky pulse spattering over Hannibal’s chest.

“It wasn’t that bad,” he said, catching his breath and wiping a finger through the mess he’d made on Hannibal’s skin. “It’s a lot cleaner, anyway.” 

Will started to pull away and Hannibal tightened his hold. He brought their joint hands to his mouth and sucked Will’s fingertip between his lips, cleaning off the come. “I’ll get a washcloth,” Will protested.

Hannibal moaned softly, tonguing the web between Will’s index and middle fingers. There was nothing in particular about the act of him licking up Will’s come that should have made his cock feel tight and heavy so soon after orgasm, and yet it did.

“In a moment,” Hannibal murmured. Will huffed in mild annoyance, but didn’t put up any further protest when Hannibal rolled them onto their sides, limbs entwined, cheek pressed to Will’s chest. 

As his heart rate calmed and the buzz from the sex faded, all the anxiety and grief from the night before crept back up on him. He could only imagine how Hannibal must feel. Will cradled him closer, fingers carding in his hand and along the nape of his neck. He almost spoke several times, but the moment he opened his mouth, the words turned to dust on his tongue. Instead he laid his cheek against Hannibal’s head and held tighter.

“Go and run a bath,” Hannibal said, parting from him with a lingering kiss. “I’ll fetch us breakfast.”

Will wanted to stop him, and bring him back to the safety of the bed. There was a fragility in him that was frightening to Will, used to thinking of Hannibal as anything but delicate. But Hannibal pulled away and Will let him, and did as he was told. 

While the tub filled with steaming water, Will perused the bottles of scented oils lining the rim. There were some he was unfamiliar with, between Hannibal’s garden and kitchen, and the memories he’d given so far. Ambergris, ylang ylang, and cedarwood. They blended nicely in the water, and Will slid in cautiously. He hissed first in pain at the temperature of the water, and then sighed in pleasure as he settled in entirely, swallowed up to his chin in the heat.

Hannibal spared him an indulgent smile when he entered. “Figs and prosciutto, and roasted sweet potatoes with goat cheese, walnut, and celery salad.” Hannibal set the tray on the tiled edge of the tub and offered a bite with his bare fingers. 

Will leaned forward to close his lips around the food--the smoky, salty tang of the prosciutto cut with the jammy sweetness of the fig--and flicked his tongue over the pad of Hannibal’s fingertip as he drew back. “Come in here with me?”

There was room enough to accommodate them both, though the water sloshed dangerous near to the side as Hannibal settled in behind him. Will was ravenous, but Hannibal insisted on feeding him little nibbling bites by hand, until he was frustrated, hungry, and aroused. He growled and when Hannibal chuckled indulgently, Will had never been so relieved to hear the sound in his life. He forgot all about his annoyance and rolled over so they were chest to chest, and he could chase the flavour of goat cheese on Hannibal’s tongue, careless of the splash of water over the rim.

Through his contentment there was the inevitable thread of melancholy and the knowledge it couldn’t last. They could steal these moments together, but Bedelia wouldn’t allow Hannibal to keep him here forever. Will’s conviction to leave this place only grew, but how? The revelation of Mischa’s death was too recent for Hannibal, and he was too hungry for revenge for Will to bring it up again now, but his mind raced with the possibilities. In his mind he could revisit the exact details of the map Hannibal showed him. There had to be a way for them to escape.

 

*

 

It was two days before Will returned to his family again, and in that time he’d grown so accustomed to living at Hannibal’s that he felt like a stranger in his own dwelling. The austere furnishings and bare walls were too cold and impersonal. There was no music, nor the sounds and scents of Hannibal cooking, nor the physical comfort of another’s touch.

Sitting across the dinner table from his father and Beverly was even more difficult than he’d anticipated. He couldn’t bring himself to take a bite of food for fear it would come back up again when he looked at one of them. _Knowing_ what they’d done and would continue to do--effortlessly, guiltlessly.

They didn’t even express any concern over his absence, all too happy to believe their Overseer in whatever story she fed them. Beverly told them about the new arrivals in the past week, and bragged about the weight gained by the twin who remained.

Father told them of Francis, who’d been brought in for violation of rules for a second time. He’d escaped Release, but everyone knew a third violation didn’t require judicial deliberation. After a third violation, Francis would automatically be Released. And Father just chuckled and shook his head, as if discussing the antics of a small child failing to correct their behaviour, where the stakes were nothing more severe than being sent to bed without dinner.

Will retreated to his room with Abigail soon after they finished. It didn’t escape his notice that Mother’s meal was largely untouched as well, and that she spent a long while in the bathroom, followed by the unmistakable sounds of heaving.

Sleeping two nights in Hannibal’s bed, Will’s own bed was cold and overly large. Abigail was fussy--as Will understood it, this was a time of great development for her, besides which she was teething. Will wasn’t going to sleep anyway, so he wore her and bounced her around his room, singing her little snatches of the songs he’d learned from perusing the records at Hannibal’s home.

There was the memory of a woman soothing her son with a cold rag for him to chew on and sooth his gums. It was worth trying. Will scrounged through his drawers to find a pair of unused socks. He snuck downstairs for some ice to fill the tip. The dwelling was dark, night fully fallen and the announcement that ALL CITIZENS REPORT TO YOUR DWELLINGS FOR LIGHTS OUT had long passed. 

On the way back upstairs, Abigail cheerfully suckling on her makeshift teether, Will passed by his father’s room, and was taken aback to hear his mother’s voice. He stopped short, drawing closer to put his ear to the door.

“--saw that it was denied,” Mother was saying.

“It was the right decision,” Father said. His voice was gentle, but with an immutable confidence. A man who followed the rules and trusted in them implicitly.

“If someone requests Release, it isn’t up to you to deny them.”

“It is if that person is still a useful, productive member of the Community.” Like he was explaining something to a Three.

Will already knew where this conversation was headed, and yet he couldn’t move away, he had to hear the rest. Mother sounded weary and angry, with an edge of helplessness that made Will’s heart ache. “I’m in pain, Jack, and I’m tired. I’m ready to go to Elsewhere.”

“Another year--two or three at the most. There are trainees who will be coming up on the completion of their training. You can work to help prepare them to take your position.”

“Two or three years?” His mother laughed weakly. “Another month of this would be unbearable.”

“Precision of language, Phyllis,” Father said in reprimand and Will felt the most powerful urge to strike him in the face. “We’ll go to medical tomorrow and see about adjusting--”

Will hurried back to his room before he gave into the desire to barge in on their conversation. How could his father not see the unfairness of it all? How could he pass judgement and Release Mischa in all her potential, but selfishly hold on to Mother while she suffered? How was he so blind to the cruelty and hypocrisy of the rules he held so dear? As much as the idea of his mother’s death caused him sorrow, he didn’t think he could deny her Release, if the choice was up to him.

These were the thoughts that kept him company in Hannibal’s absence. Thoughts that led him to wonder, in the long, sleepless hours, if it was so bad, what Hannibal wanted. The fondness he felt for his father was the result of years of conditioning. When Will tried to look at Jack from an objective perspective, he couldn’t say for certain that he would care at all if Hannibal killed him, other than having been taught through memory after memory that such a thing was wrong.

It was a troubling realisation to arrive at, perhaps more troubling than anything else he’d learned in recent days, from Mischa’s death and those involved, to his mother’s illness or Beverly’s actions. He held tight to Abigail, who’d long since fallen asleep in his arms, her breathing deep and reassuring.

Hannibal had shared plenty of memories with him over the past couple of days. Walking through the sultry night air in the narrow Japanese streets, all lit up with glowing lanterns for the Tanabata festival, the buzz of summer insects and strains of different musical performances following them through the tea garden where they stood on the bridge overlooking the koi. New and exotic flavours of food and the silky sour bite of sake. The clack of the geta as they walked with short strides in an elegant glide.

A winter spent nestled in the snowy mountains of the Alps, hot chocolate laced with whiskey that warmed Will all the way to his toes. Newly weds who barely left their room, tangled up in one another, absolutely giddy with it. Making love for hours, sleeping the day away, cosied up in the hot tub on the balcony at night with nothing to see for miles but the stretch of snow-capped mountains and the stars, brighter than he’d known they could be.

Mixed into many of them was an underlying feeling of discontent--that these were just quiet, happy moments carved out of otherwise dismal times. There were words like civil disobedience, totalitarian regimes, sedition and treason, rebellion and terrorism. It was the memory of the things leaders were capable of when their citizens didn’t fall in line. A warning.

But Will wasn’t frightened of what Bedelia might do. What could be worse than the certainty of death at the hands of her complicit sheep? The promise of what they might gain through escape was a far greater. He could never be completely happy or content here, now that he knew what he did.

There was another message from Bedelia awaiting Will when he woke in the morning. Parting from Abigail was more difficult than he could remember it being before. She clung to him and cried when Beverly finally pulled her away, and there was a painful pang in Will’s chest on the entire bike ride to the Overseer’s office.

Bedelia’s secretary led Will into her office and Jack was there, seated in one of the pair of chairs before her desk. Will frowned, stride slowing. “Father?”

“Will.” Bedelia didn’t smile. She waved him in to take the seat beside his father. “Please, we have some important things to discuss with you.”

Will was hesitant, not so much they could call him disobedient, but enough to make his displeasure evident. “All these meetings are cutting into my training.”

Bedelia and Jack exchanged a look, and Jack leaned closer to Will across the space between them. “The Overseer and I have been growing concerned for your well-being.”

“Training isn’t always pleasant or easy,” Will said, “but I knew that. The Overseer warned as much when I was chosen for the position.”

Bedelia stood from her chair, coming around to lean against the desk. “Of course, we can’t begin to understand the things you see.” It took all of Will’s willpower not to tell her _you will. Just wait until we’re gone, you’ll have to face it all._

“Sometimes the stress of the position can manifest in different ways. Troubling ways.” Bedelia took a remote control from her desk and when she pushed the button, a picture of Garret came up on the screen behind her. “Do you remember this number Six?”

“Garret?”

Jack inhaled and Bedelia shot Will a sharp look. “We don’t say that name any longer. It has been retired since his Release.”

“What does he have to do with me, or Hannibal?” Will demanded.

Bedelia pushed the button again, and there was a picture of Louise lying on the kitchen floor of her dwelling, throat gaping open wide from a knife wound. There was a pool of blood glistening around her, spreading across the tile, her eyes were wide open and lifeless. Will had long suspected something of the sort, but it was startling and surreal to see the evidence before his eyes, presented by two people who had no clue what they were showing him.

“Number Six attacked his wife, leading to her Loss. In the trial preceding his Release, it came to our attention that Hannibal had tampered with Six’s injections in order to foster instability. Hannibal’s actions led directly to this incident.”

“Will.” Jack touched the back of his wrist briefly. “If anyone else were to have done the things Hannibal has done, they would have been Released immediately. As the Receiver, however, he was exempt from punishment.”

“It is why we were so pleased by the strength of character you showed, your sensitivity, and your obedience. We needed a Receiver to take Hannibal’s place, before we could Release him,” Bedelia explained.

Will’s heart began to race at the mere suggestion, panic and bile creeping up his throat. He swallowed it back and spoke, and was proud of how even his voice came out. “But he’s only shared a fraction of his memories with me. It will take years for him to share them all.”

“You could change that,” Jack said. “Hannibal has taken to you. He enjoys you quite a lot. If you asked, he would most certainly increase the rate of transfer.”

Will stared at his father in disbelief and scrambled for a quick lie. “You want me to help you so you can Release him sooner? I think you overestimate my influence.”

“Please, consider it,” Bedelia said. “We are all so grateful for, Will. I know it’s a lot to ask, and I know you’ve recently undergone a painful transition in your training, but we have faith in you.”


	8. Chapter 8

Will was quiet when he arrived. Hannibal had been...if not anxious, then disquieted over Bedelia calling him into her office for the second time this month, and now Will was clearly lost in his own thoughts. 

Hannibal had been reticent to share his thoughts of revenge with Will at such an early stage in his training, fearful of his reaction. But then, he found it difficult to exercise caution in regards to every aspect of their relationship. Every step of the way Will had pried the memories and revelations from Hannibal's at times reluctant fingers.

As brief a time as they'd known one another, Will had already shown keen insight into Hannibal's inner workings. That he had not recoiled in disgust but responded with compassion was a mystery. Will felt the suffering of others as if it were his own, yet he could not condemn Hannibal for wishing death on those who had wronged him. What a delightfully confounding contradiction.

Hannibal prepared him tea and sat across from him in their habitual places, and said, “Would you care to discuss what is bothering you?”

“You sound like a psychiatrist,” Will said, parting with a begrudging smile.

“Perhaps in another life,” Hannibal granted, hands spread.

Will's smile fell. “The Overseer wants to Release you.”

“Ah.” Now that was hardly a revelation. There could be no mistake, now that he knew what had become of Mischa, that Bedelia had been impatiently biding her time. How it must have frustrated her to go so long without a worthy candidate. And what would she do, if she were to learn of the true nature and extent of their relationship.

“She told me you were responsible for Garret killing his wife.” Will didn't look surprised or overly angered by the news, only sad. “I think I understand why,” he said after a moment of staring Hannibal directly in the eyes.

“Boredom, disdain, curiosity. Just to see what would happen, because at least it would be different. Something you can’t get from all the books you’ve already read and the memories you revisited time and again.”

It was accurate enough. Hannibal dipped his head in assent. Will nodded wearily, head in hand. “But what of Elise?” Will was ashamed to realise he hadn’t thought of the Five who’d been Garret and Louise’s daughter in quite a long while, though now that he did, he knew with certainty that he hadn’t seen her since the incident.

“She’d observed the incident, and Bedelia was inclined to Release her--I managed to convince her that Elise’s memory of the trauma would fade, and she was placed with a family who lost their own 5 in a neighbourhood to the north. They renamed her Marissa.” Hannibal had been keeping an eye on her, curious how she would turn out after having witnessed her mother’s death at her father’s hand.

“And does that absolve you of your guilt, that you saved their daughter? What about Louise? She didn't do anything to hurt you or anyone else. She worked in the Fish Hatchery.” 

“I feel no more compassion for her than I do for the animals who provide our sustenance,” Hannibal said, perhaps more coldly than he'd intended. No more coddling him, now. “Her death meant as little to me as theirs and had relatively the same impact—I gain enjoyment from the meals I prepare, and I took enjoyment from watching Garret shrug off the haze of drugs that kept him from realising his true self.”

Will met his gaze then, eyes narrowed. “What did you say to him? What reason could he have had for killing her? How could he have even known how to do it?”

“I merely informed him that his genetic material had been stolen from him and successfully used to impregnate a Birth Mother. Garret and Louise had recently had their eldest child leave the house, and I believe he felt that loss quite profoundly. He had applied for another, but of course he would never receive more than two, and certainly not a child of his own bloodline.” 

Garret had taken the information precisely as poorly as Hannibal had expected, going into a rage. Talking about how his daughter belonged with him. The instability that plagued Garret was not entirely unheard of--if caught early enough, the infant was simply Released, but there were those who slipped through the cracks and survived to adulthood on a heavy cocktail of medication. Tobias, Francis, Mason...

“As to how, I’m not entirely certain. You must admit it’s fascinating, that he discovered for himself, without any knowledge or understanding of murder. It was something instinctive to him. What do you suppose that says about humanity?” 

Hannibal looked expectantly to Will, who did not appear impressed. “Of course, I hadn't know his daughter would be born with the ability to See Beyond. I hadn't realised how it would affect her. The difficulty she would have adjusting.”

Will's eyes fell shut with a pained expression crossing his face. “Abigail?”

“Are my answers to your satisfaction?” Hannibal asked, unable to keep the scorn from his voice. “Have I made you choice easier?”

“Choice?” Will echoed, eyes snapping open. “You think I have a fucking choice, Hannibal? I can’t be near my father or sister now, without seeing what they’ve done, and now I can’t be near you without seeing Louise.” 

Of course this would be the straw that broke the camel's back. Anything that impacted his darling Abigail. Will was on his feet and up the stairs before Hannibal could move to stop him, if he were so inclined. Better to let Will sort through his feelings on his own, than try to coerce his understanding. Will already showed a propensity for darkness, a preoccupation with death and destruction that went beyond casual, paired the misanthropy Hannibal had fostered in him. 

This was all happening far too quickly. Hannibal had anticipated years to slowly coax out these thoughts and emotions from Will. He could share more memories to help him come to a place of acceptance, understanding, and perhaps even enjoyment, if Will would allow it, only now Bedelia threatened to steal Will away from him as she’d stolen Mischa. 

He should have known that it would come to this. The memories gave him a unique insight into human nature that Bedelia and the others did not possess. He should have anticipated how they would react upon discovering that he was Giving to Mischa, just as he should have realised they were biding their time until his Release, but he’d allowed himself to be lulled into complacency, no better than any of the sheep in the Community.

For many years, Hannibal had been labouring under the delusion that he was in control, but now, neither was Bedelia. As soon as Will had been selected as Receiver, it had begun to slip away, and yes, now he had to acknowledge, anxiety, brewing unfamiliar and unwelcome within him. Whatever happened next, it all hinged on Will.

*

When not at Hannibal’s home, Will didn’t know what to do with himself. His dwelling was empty, and being there only reminded him all the reasons he didn’t want to be around his family. It was bad enough, thinking of his sister Releasing infants, and the countless men and women his father had passed judgement on, but even worse was the guilt of not being able to face his mother in her agony.

And now this. All Will had to do was close his eyes to be transported back to that day, when he’d seen Garret covered in blood. As vivid as that image was in his mind, as fresh as the memories of fear and apprehension were, he could just as easily imagine what Louise must have felt in her last moments. What Elise must still see replaying when she was alone at night.

He found himself pedalling aimlessly around the neighbourhood, waiting for the nausea and outrage he’d experienced when he’d first come to understand death, when he’d seen Beverly Releasing the twin, or at the knowledge of what had become of Mischa. It didn’t come. He knew how it was supposed to feel, but couldn’t conjure it.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” he muttered under his breath. Could he blame Hannibal, or the memories? Or was it possible that this was a part of him that he was only beginning to unravel?

 _Would it be so awful_? that voice like Hannibal’s whispered to him. Will thought he might scream, or wreck his bicycle into something, but that would draw attention, and then he’d be called back into Bedelia’s office again.

Bedelia….Bedelia might deserve it. Oh, she didn’t have the memories, but she knew more than the others. She knew that she was doing something wrong by Releasing Mischa, or she wouldn’t have lied to Hannibal about it. And she was trying to turn Will against him. Will actually thought, for a brief moment before he censored himself, that he might enjoy watching her suffer.

But Alana, who cared so tenderly for the Seniors, and his father, who believed in the ineffability of the rules, who let them govern every aspect of his life, but who was still kind and warm--no, Will couldn’t tolerate that.

 _How are they any different than Louise? How are they more deserving of your empathy?_ If it was nothing more than his personal connection to them, what did that make him? Some sort of sociopath?

He was talking himself in circles around this, all in an attempt to avoid the truth, which was that he was so deeply in love with Hannibal, it didn’t matter what he’d done. Elise could have died along with her mother that day, and still Will would gotten past it, in the end. That, he knew, was unhealthy and dangerous, but it was too late now. It wasn’t so much that he was willing to overlook what happened with Louise, but that it didn’t change how he felt.

Killing Alana and Jack would tear him apart, but so would staying here, knowing each day that innocent people were Released. Neither choice was perfect, but if they left--if the people of the Community got their memories back, maybe things could change. And either way, he’d be away from here. 

He could save Abigail, and he could be with Hannibal…

It was astonishingly selfish, and Will knew, given time and distance, his mind wouldn’t be changed. He wanted out of here, and he didn’t want to leave without Hannibal, regardless of the cost. Even as disgusted as he was with himself.

That night he showed Abigail where they’d be going, sharing with her the idea of a real home and family. Soothing her was soothing to him. Maybe it was nothing more than a fantasy, to hope that Hannibal would be different outside. That there would be enough things there to occupy him that he wouldn’t need to hurt someone just to see what might happen.

“You know,” Will said, when he came into Hannibal’s home the next morning. His fists clenched and released for want of something to grab, or punch. “I didn't have a choice from the moment I stepped through your door, and you wouldn't have it any other way.”

A cautious hope spread across Hannibal’s face, warring with disbelief. A flutter of microexpressions gone too quickly for anyone else to have caught. “I'm not sorry for the things I've done, or those things I plan to do.”

“How would you do it?” Will asked, all his muscles drawn tense. “How would you kill them?”

There was no hesitation in Hannibal’s response. He’d thought about it in elaborate detail, no doubt. “Alana first, I think. An injection, as impassionately administered as she no doubt performed on Mischa.”

Will scoffed. “Do you think that you’d be doing her a kindness?”

Hannibal hesitated, eyes catching Will’s and not letting go. “Removing the barbiturate would leave her conscious, but paralysed, and able to feel everything when I inject the potassium chloride. They used to liken it to being burned alive from the inside out. Fire exploding in their veins.”

Will had no comeback for that. “Go on,” he said.

“For Jack, who passes judgement without hesitation or remorse, I would pluck his eyes from their sockets, take the still-beating heart from his chest, and then I’d peel back his scalp, crack open his skull, and replace his brain with a posey of helichrysum and lilac so he might finally understand what it is he’s done.”

“Justice is not only blind, it’s mindless and heartless,” Will mused. As clearly as if he’d peeked on the scene just as Hannibal envisioned it, Will could see his father displayed like that. Past the initial wave of almost paralysing fear of loss, and sadness, Will could appreciate the poetry of the statement it made.

“And for Bedelia,” Hannibal snarled, “smiling in her villainy...after she’d seen what I’d done, I would rip her tongue from her mouth and feed it to her, so that she may choke on all her lies.”

Will squirmed in his seat. “That would satisfy you?” he asked, eyes squinted as if, were he to study long enough, he could read in Hannibal’s face the answer to his dilemma. “They wouldn’t understand why you were doing what you were doing.”

“They would still feel pain, and terror.”

That would please Hannibal. Not just the act of revenge, but of being the _cause_ of such intense suffering. Will closed his eyes to blink back tears. “And after they were dead,” he asked, “we could go? You and I, and Abigail? We could leave?”

There was that hope again, naked on Hannibal’s face now. He was either unable or undesirous of hiding it. “You would still wish me to accompany you?”

“I already told you, I don’t have a choice.” Will wrapped his arms around himself in a hug, hands grasping elbows. He’d used to do it all the time, when he was younger. Hard to believe he was still a few weeks shy of his seventeenth birthday. The time of childhood felt so distant to him now. “I could go without you, but I wouldn’t want to. It wouldn’t have the same meaning for me.”

Hannibal stroked his hand over Will’s cheek. “I could never have predicted you,” he said in awe, and pressed a kiss to Will’s forehead.

Will turned away from his touch. “We need a plan, and I don’t want to wait.”

 

*

 

Will’s interest in leaving was more than idle talk. He pulled out the Atlas of the New United States, now some two hundred years old, and began to pour over it. “It would be easiest to go by water. What lies over the sea?”

Hannibal shook his head. “It’s much too far a distance to travel without the appropriate vessel, to which we don’t have the access. Better to travel across the mountain to O’Tenkay. There’s a passage through which the majority of our imports come--those things I request, and the few items necessary for maintaining the Community that cannot be manufactured here.”

“But surely it would be faster and easier to head through the desert…” Will traced his finger down from the southern border of the Community and frowned. “I thought...I thought all the deserts in the United States were in the west.”

“The war changed the landscape quite dramatically.” Hannibal himself didn’t have a full understanding of the fifty years or so between the end of the war and the establishment of the Ceremony. There were scattered memories included in the Receiver’s Collection, but it had been given little focus in the grand scheme of things. The founders were more concerned with reminding the Receiver _why_ the Community had been created, not how.

“By the end of the war, most of the major metropolitan areas were destroyed. The federal government was gone, the infrastructure in shambles. The founders of the Community alone had the access to the technology necessary not only to thrive, but to dissuade others from attacking. Some areas, like O’Tenkay, came together and bore new superstates from the shambles of what came before. To the south, however, the former state of Florida became a haven for thieves and raiders. I do not know what has become of them since, but as we’ll be travelling with an infant, it would be better to play it safe.”

“Fine,” Will agreed, short-tempered. “The mountains. We’ll need appropriate clothing, enough non-perishable food, shelter.”

“It will take a week at least, to prepare everything, perhaps two.” 

Hannibal was already making a mental catalogue. He had sweaters enough for Will and himself, and could use material from the sewing room to scrap together some things for Abigail, coats for them all. Weatherproofing against the elements would be more difficult. There was some tarp in the basement from a previous Receiver, and he’d never found a purpose for it. It wouldn’t be enough for a tent, barely enough to shelter one of them in a makeshift lean-to, but perhaps he could use it to line their coats...

Will sighed. “I wish it were all over with already. I just want to be gone from here.” He was restless and fidgety the rest of the day, looking over the various routes out of the Community. 

There were the different neighbourhoods, each with the unchanging population of 3500, stretching outwards from the shore towards the mountains and desert. It would take days on bicycle to reach the western boundary where the artificially flat land gave way to the foothills. The Receiver could request a vehicle for travel between them, but if he were to do so, Bedelia would question it. And once her remains were found, they would be pursued relentlessly.

“If they find us, they will kill you,” Hannibal warned him.

“They’d like to kill you anyway,” Will said. “And Abigail, if she doesn’t perform to their standards.” Bitter and angry and all the more lovely for it.

Hannibal lifted back the curls from Will’s forehead and drew his hand through his hair to rest at the back of his neck. “You are so remarkable,” Hannibal said. “I love you so, dear boy.”

Will ducked out from under his touch, taking Hannibal’s hand from his neck and holding it in his own tightly. “I know,” he said. “The memories tell me I shouldn’t, but that doesn’t seem to matter. I love you, too.”

“Come here.” Hannibal beckoned him, tipping Will’s chin up, but Will turned his head away.

“I need--Abigail doesn’t sleep as well when I’m not there, and I need time to think.” Will stood and paced away across the room.

Hannibal was taken with the desire to hold him close and not let him leave, lest he change his mind. The barbed tendrils of hope had taken hold in his chest. Were Will to rip that away from him now, Hannibal would be eviscerated along with it. But Will radiated a nervy confidence; challenging him would do Hannibal no good. Better, instead, to show his trust, and never let on how very fragile it was. 

 

*

 

Will didn’t return on Saturday, and it took all Hannibal’s willpower not to go in search of him. Bedelia didn’t call, and security didn’t show up pounding on his door, however, and so he distracted himself as best he could with his books and recordings.

Early on Sunday morning he woke, uncertain what it was that had caused him to stir, until he heard footsteps on the stair. His muscles tensed in anticipation and suddenly he was wide awake, eyes casting around for a suitable weapon. It was Will who pushed open the door of his room, however, a charming mingling of sheepishness and irritation on his face.

Hannibal set the lamp back in place and waited expectantly. Will huffed a sigh, peeled off his shirt and kicked aside his trousers as he crossed the room to stand before Hannibal. “I half expected to come to my senses,” Will told him, and climbed into his lap. 

“Have you?” Hannibal brought his hands up to the smooth, warm skin of Will’s spine, and tilted his head back to allow Will’s brushing kiss.

“I sat across the table from my father at dinner, and all I could see was the way you described him, head split open, bleeding from the gaping wound in his chest, and I kept expecting to feel guilty over it.”

“But you didn’t?” Hannibal surmised, lips quirking upwards in a smirk that hid his relief.

Will shook his head, and bent to kiss Hannibal again, longer, tongue slick and hot against Hannibal’s. “I didn’t,” he agreed. “I thought it was the memories you gave me, or at least I wanted to blame them, but…” He swallowed hard, hands clenching on Hannibal’s shoulders.

Hannibal tasted his way down Will’s neck, tonguing the faded love mark he’d left a few days prior, pale purple and gold against Will’s pale skin. Will moaned weakly. He circled his hips, cock already hard, leaving a slick trail on Hannibal’s bare stomach.

“But the things you said, of what you’d do them all--I can see it so vividly, and--” Will’s voice left him on a gasp when Hannibal flipped them, laying him flat out on the bed and settling between his thighs. Will’s fingers sunk into his hair, pulling up his questing mouth for a kiss that left them both panting, hips working together in a hot grind.

Will reached out blindly for the jar of coconut oil they kept at the bedside and brought back his coated finger to stroke down Hannibal’s cock. It quickly turned to liquid from the heat of his hand, dripping over them both in a slippery mess. There was no real friction, just slick skin sliding together.

Hannibal rolled them again, sitting a dazed and disoriented Will up on his lap. “Wha--”

“Like this.” Hannibal took another handful of oil and rubbed it over his thighs, down the insides of them until they were thoroughly coated. Then with his hand on Will’s cock, drew him in, thighs pressed tightly together for Will to thrust between.

Will moved, jerky and awkward, eyes searching Hannibal’s face for some inkling as to what he was doing, but after a few short thrusts, he found his rhythm. His breath caught, and released on a choking moan. “Is this--” he faltered, hips working faster. 

“Yes,” Hannibal breathed. Every stroke dragged back and forth against the base of his cock, over his balls, and the sensitive flesh behind, far more stimulating than he’d anticipated. He found himself gasping, urging on Will faster with fingers dug into the soft, firm flesh of the globe of his ass. “Like that.”

Will whimpered and hung his head, his lip caught between his teeth. Sweat dripped from his brow, down the length of his curls to drip onto Hannibal’s chest. The muscles of his thighs burned from holding together so tightly so long, but Hannibal couldn’t deny Will his pleasure. When he came it was with the sweetest, broken sound, like a sob

Hannibal’s whole body responded to it, cock jumping, ass clenching in longing for a more intimate connection, spine arching to meet him. His thighs fell open and lax, slick with Will’s come between his cheeks, muscles twitching pleasantly. Will pawed at him inelegantly, grip tight and clumsy and desperate. Hannibal thrust up once, twice, and then he too was coming, thick, hot spurts painting them both.

Panting and sleepy-eyed in his pleasure, Will collapsed against him, stealing languid kisses, and they lay together in a fragile contentment.

“Will it be enough for you?” Will traced his fingers through Hannibal’s chest hair in an abstract shape.

“Hmm?” Hannibal petted him up and down his spine, pulling at the long ends of his hair gently on each upwards sweep. He could fall asleep just like this, despite not being particularly tired. He wasn’t sure the novelty of lying with Will would ever pass.

“To kill them and leave?”

Ah, they were back to this again. No matter what he said, it was clear that Will wasn’t quite as on board with the plan as either of them would wish him to be. The question became if Hannibal was willing to compromise as Will had done.

“What would you suggest, my love?”

“It just seems to me, it would be more satisfying to let them suffer as you have,” Will said. “Let them live and have all the memories that are released once we’re gone. Let what they’ve done torture them.”

“I suppose there’s some poetic justice in that,” Hannibal allowed.

Will rolled onto his stomach, propped up on his elbows. “And if you still want their deaths, let them live with the promise that you’ll come back for them.”

“Would that please you?”

“If you think any of this pleases me, maybe you don’t know me as well as I’d thought,” Will said, tone and expression grim. “I’ll be pleased when we’re gone and this is all over.”

“I apologise.” Hannibal pulled himself up to sit against the headboard. “I know this has been difficult for you, on top of all the new memories you’ve had to absorb. Memories I’ve had for over a decade. There are others I could give you, that might make it easier to accept--”

“No, thank you. I’m done with other people’s memories. Whatever else is left, I’ll know soon enough, out there.” Will jerked his head towards the window.

More than once, an insidious whisper had suggested that this was all subterfuge on Will’s part. From the moment he’d walked in after his meeting with Jack and Bedelia, and began to formulate this plan, it had always been a possibility that Hannibal was playing right into their trap. 

If that were the case, he wouldn’t turn down the possibility of more memories. He’d try to take as many as he could, as quickly as Hannibal would give them, all the ugliest, darkest memories so they wouldn’t return to the collective consciousness after his Release. Unless that too, was part of his plan, to lull Hannibal into a false sense of security. 

Though such an overly complex deception was unlikely, Hannibal’s mind would not let it go entirely. There were too many instances in history that reenacted themselves behind his eyes, the most famous betrayals of trust enacted on unsuspecting targets, who’d never doubted the loyalty of their friends and lovers.

“Hannibal.” Will touched a hand to his cheek, guiding them face to face. 

“I’d go with you right now, if you asked it. If you wanted to kill them, I wouldn’t stop you and we’d _go_. You’re the one who says we have to wait--I just want to make sure that when the time comes, you’ll be with me. I don’t want you regretting how it happened, obsessed over something you can’t undo. You only have one chance for your revenge. I know you. I know you won’t be satisfied unless it’s perfect.”

“The sooner we finish our preparations, the sooner we can go,” Hannibal said. He stood from the bed and went to his closet. “There are items you can gather more easily than I can, without attracting attention--backpacks, canteens, and athletic clothing from the Recreation Centre.”

“If I’m found taking Community assets, the Overseer will know something is going on--that’s a very serious crime,” Will called from the bathroom, over the rush of running water in the sink. When he returned, he immediately began to gather his discarded clothing. “I’ll go now, while everyone’s already out for the day.” He redressed quickly, anxiety clear in every line of his body.

Hannibal caught him by the arm before he could leave, and Will turned back to give him a quick kiss. “I’ll be back later. You can teach me how to do the sewing thing you were talking about, to make Abigail’s jumpers.”

In that moment, Hannibal wanted nothing so much as to throw caution to the wind, grab what they could, and go. Will had a way to undo all his carefully maintained walls and all his best, if misguided, intentions, smashing into his life with all the force of a hurricane. 

He said, “I love you,” and knew Will understood it meant _I trust you._

Will gave him tired smile on the way out the door and said, “Me too.”

*

After the first few times he stole supplies from the Community, it became easy. He’d been jittery with nerves, jumping at every sound when he walked into the storage room at the Rec Centre, but it was mostly empty. A few older citizens, not quite ready for the Senior Centre playing board games, and some Twos and Threes running around the gymnasium, but no one paid him any attention. As easily as his gaze had passed over Hannibal for years, their gazes passed over him, as if afraid to look directly at him.

Sneaking into the Community Hall was trickier on paper, but went even more smoothly. He was the Receiver--he could ask anyone in the Community for anything, and they had to give it to him. They were practically tripping over themselves to take him on the tour of the facility that he requested, and after it was finished, he called up a mental map of the place and back-tracked to the basement entrance.

It was kept locked up tight, and where Hannibal had gotten the code, Will couldn’t say and probably didn’t want to know, but it worked. When he descended the stairs, he could see why they kept it under lock and key. Row after dusty row of shelves laden with items left over from the founding of the Community. Why they hadn’t gotten rid of it was a mystery, and it was clear no one had been down here in an age. No one would miss anything he took. 

Will shoved his bag full of reflective blankets, solar lanterns, a pop-up tent and compass, ponchos--anything and everything they could possibly want--including the ancient MREs that Hannibal would likely turn his nose up at. As long as they wouldn’t make them sick, Will would choke it down. Hannibal could make up for it when they had their own home on the outside.

They worked together in Hannibal’s sewing room, lining the tiny woolen snowsuit he’d made for Abigail with a poncho and making her a full wardrobe out of the extra athletic clothing he’d stolen. Tiny socks, long underwear, and a jumper made of one of Hannibal’s tweed jackets he’d been particularly reluctant to part with.

“Just think,” Will teased him, “all your material comes by trade from O’Tenkay. Whole stores you can peruse to choose exactly what you want, instead of whatever Bedelia provides for you. You can fill your entire closet with hideous tweed jackets.”

Hannibal shut him up with kisses, and Will let himself be distracted for a while. When he wasn’t being kept busy, he was quick to give in to his nerves as his mind ran away from him with all the ways their plan could go to hell--imagined with perfectly clarity. 

Better to let Hannibal take him apart with his mouth, sucking his cock right to the brink of orgasm, then denying him that pleasure. Touching him everywhere but his cock, nails flicking over his nipples, rough, sucking bites down his throat, sucking his balls with his thumb rubbing the spot just behind. And when Will was writhing, cock weeping for attention, taking him in his mouth again. Over and over until Will was panting, tears and sweat streaking his face, begging to come.

Hannibal said he was helping increase his stamina. Will said it was torture, and particularly rich coming from Hannibal, who never lasted much longer than he did. When he did come at last, it left him boneless and wrung out, and he finally slept soundly, for the first time in what seemed like ages. Hannibal must have called and made his excuses for him again, because he slept the whole night through.

The plan was to go after Alana, first. Hannibal had gotten his hands on the drugs used in the Release, arguably the most serious infraction so far. They would go for her at her home, at the end of her shift on Friday. She had never applied for a partner and lived alone in a small apartment dwelling close to the town centre. No one would notice her missing until she didn’t show up for work on Monday, and by then they’d be long gone.

Jack was trickier. They couldn’t go after his father at their dwelling--Will absolutely refused to allow the rest of his family to be drawn into Hannibal’s revenge drama. He worked later than Alana, so there was a chance to catch him in his office, but his absence would be noticed within a few hours.

Which meant they would only have a short window of time to carry out the rest of their plan. Bedelia had access to the Community vehicles. Hannibal would want to linger, to fully enjoy his victory, but they would have to run. Even if no one second guessed their vehicle acquisition, someone would report it to the Overseer, at which point they’d be discovered.

By the time she was dealt with, Beverly would be at his dwelling with Abigail, and that was when it would all come crashing down. As soon as he took her, the alarms would be sounded, if they hadn’t been already. They could outrun security, who would be pursuing them on bikes, but then the drones would be sent after them, and the bombers.

Will wasn’t going to point out how much easier it would be if they just took Abigail one night after everyone had gone to bed. Hannibal already knew that, and he’d made the choice. Even with all the hurdles they’d face, Will had faith. Hannibal might not have admitted as much, but he must have considered running before. 

Whether he’d stayed because he had no one to run with, or because he’d been pacified by Bedelia’s lies, he’d already had the route too clearly outlined in his mind to have only just thought it up. With all his memories and skills, he would see to it that they escaped together and intact. Will had come as close to peace as he was going to get, all things considered.

There were only two days left. Two more nights spent in his dwelling with a family he’d never see again. If everything went according to plan, only Beverly would be left alive. Hannibal might be leaving a trail of bodies spurred on by revenge, but Will would be leaving his own body behind, out of compassion. He wouldn’t let his mother suffer any longer.

When Will had asked for a syringe for himself, complete with barbiturate, Will saw the battle within Hannibal. A desperate longing to trust Will, and his fear of betrayal. He’d passed it over without question in the end.

Abigail was pleased to see him after he’d been gone, and she slept soundly that night. At breakfast she babbled cheerfully, all sorts of new sounds Will’d never heard from her before. He bounced her in his lap while he ate and fed her formula to her. 

Beverly watched them with a wry smile. “It’s really too bad you didn’t end up a Nurturer, Will. Maybe things would have gone differently for number 47 then.”

“What?” Will asked, laughing in confusion at her use of Abigail’s number rather than her name.

“Since you were gone the other night, I decided to take her back to the centre. She’s been sleeping so well through the night, I figured it was as good a time as any,” Beverly explained, but her face said it all.

“Uh oh,” Father said, chuckling. “Let me guess, it didn’t go so well.”

Beverly put her hand to her forehead. “That’s an understatement. She cried all night long. The night crew were so frazzled I had to go in early to help straighten things out. Alexander was not amused. He said he’d been too lenient with me, letting me take 47 home, and as much as it pains me to admit, he’s right. She’s just not coming along as she should.”

“Are they going to move her in with the Uncertains?” Will asked, a pit growing in his stomach.

“Nah, it’s a bit late for that.” She leaned over to ruffle Abigail’s hair. “First thing today I’m going to have to Release her. But no one can say I didn’t give it my best effort.”

“No,” Mother agreed, “you went above and beyond the call of duty, Beverly. You can’t blame yourself.”

Will could barely see past the haze of adrenaline, fear, and rage. He didn’t even recall finishing breakfast. He had his bag in his room, with their clothes and a few other supplies, but the bulk of winter materials had left room for little else. Hannibal’s bag was the one packed full of their food, shelter, maps, and all the other necessities. 

“Bev, let me take her to the centre,” he asked. “To say goodbye?”

“Will.” Beverly sighed, looking back and forth between Abigail chewing on her fist and Will’s wide-eyed expression. “Well I guess it’s not like anything else can go wrong now that she’s being Released--but the ceremony is at 9 o’clock sharp!”

It wasn’t enough time. It was a quarter past eight now, and the bike ride to Hannibal’s took twenty minutes, even if he pedalled as fast as he could. If Will wanted to save Abigail, there wasn’t a moment to waste. Hannibal would have to enact his part of the plan on his own. Will only hoped he would understand, once he learned Will was gone.

Father and Beverly were moving around downstairs, about to leave for the morning, while Mother had gone back to her room after breakfast to rest. Will strapped Abigail onto his chest and put on his backpack. He dug the syringe from its hiding place tucked behind the rim of his tablet and as soon as the front door closed, went to knock on his mother’s door.

“Will?” Mother looked bemused by his presence. “And 47.”

“Mom--” Will paced back and forth across her room, grasping for the words that would make her understand, or at least inclined to listen to him. “If you had the opportunity to be Released, would you take it?”

“Will!” Her tone was scolding now. It wasn’t something you brought up in polite conversation. “That’s really none of your business.”

“But I’m the Receiver, Mom, and you didn’t answer my question.”

His mother didn’t seem to know what to say that, eyes wide, expression frozen. “I applied for Release, and it was denied, so it’s a pointless discussion, but the answer to your question is yes.”

Will sighed, steeling his courage, and held out the syringe for her. “If you’d let me, I’d Release you right now.”

She reached out for the syringe before apparently thinking better of it, and jerked her hand back as if burnt. “Oh, but Will--you’d be in an awful lot of trouble if anyone knew you had that. You have to return it at once.”

“You’ve been taught your whole life that everything you do is in service to the Community, but they can’t ask this of you,” Will said, taking her hand in his. “You’re going to get sicker and weaker, and if you let them, they’ll take from you until you can’t give anymore.” He placed the syringe in her palm and closed her fingers around it. “So now the choice is yours. I love you.”

“Precision of language, Will,” Mother choked out.

“Trust me,” Will told her, ducking in to brush a kiss across her cheek. “I know what I’m saying.”

Then there was no more stalling. Will hurried down the stairs and out the front door. The streets were bustling with activity. His friends and neighbours, dozens of familiar faces that seemed strangers to him now. He tried to keep his anxiety under control, pedalling at a normal pace so as not to draw attention to himself, even as he darted frequent looks at his watch. There just wasn’t enough time.

“Will!” Brian called to him, pulling up alongside him as he made his way to the forest that bordered the western side of the neighbourhood. He quirked a bemused sidelong smile at Abigail. “What are you doing with a new child?”

“Just on my way to drop her off at the centre for my sister,” Will said, putting on a little speed.

Brian kept up easily. “Hey, that’s next door to the Medical Centre, we could ride together?”

Will put a foot down to stop himself, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “Look, Brian, I need you to do me a favour.”

Brian arched a brow at him in derisive humour. “You haven’t been around in ages, and now you want a favour?” he asked.

“Please,” Will said. “If we were ever friends, please Brian, I need you to go without me, and if anyone asks, you say you saw me by the path that leads to the north.”

“Will, what’s going on?” Brian darted a look from him to the others biking in the distance.

“ _Please_ ,” Will said again, low and urgent. 

Brian shook his head. “I’m not going to lie--they’d put me up for judgement.”

“Fine, then don’t lie, but just give me a headstart!” Will didn’t wait for a response. He stood up on the pedal, pushing faster, and pulled away towards the footpath into the woods. Brian didn’t call for him to stop, and he didn’t follow. Will had to take it as a good sign.

For several minutes, there was quiet. No one but him in the woods, no wildlife allowed within the Community. He pedalled as fast as he could, until his heart was thudding in his chest, his lungs burning, and it felt like they might burst. His watch told him it was ten minutes ‘til.

There were plenty of paths for nature hikes, but those would be the first they searched. They wouldn’t make it far at this pace. His bicycle wasn’t made for off-roading, and the forest floor was too thick with undergrowth for it to even be an option.

Will cast his mind back to the maps they’d poured over, imprinted on his mind as clearly as on paper. The stream met up with another, larger stream that flowed south for some distance before meeting up with the river and flowing into the ocean. He turned the bike towards the river. The only time anyone came out here was when the school had a special event, or during recreation hours. It was empty now. 

Far off the path, Will hid his bike in a thorn bush, and covered it with branches and leaves. He dug through the shed and pulled out an old kayak that looked as though it had gone unused for a long while, and left untended. It was possible that someone might not notice it missing at first.

Just as he pushed off from the dock with the oar, a distant announcement rang out through the Community. This far out he could just make it out. “ALL SIXTEENS ARE REMINDED TO PROCEED DIRECTLY TO TRAINING OR OTHER OBLIGATIONS.” So they hadn’t realised he’d run just yet, only thought he was running late.

The current moved along gently, but with Will’s furious strokes, they were carried along with a far greater speed than he could have hoped to achieve on his bike. Abigail, apparently soothed by their frantic ride, had fallen fast asleep. Her breath puffing through his shirt, the warmth of her tiny body, and her steady heartbeat was what he focussed on to keep from panicking. She was relying on him to save her, and Will would not let her down.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for canon typical violence and character death

After the announcement, Hannibal was on alert. When Will didn’t arrive at his usual time, he felt the first stirring of unease. But it wasn’t until the screen on his wall lit up, projecting Bedelia’s image into the room and said, “Please remain in your dwelling, Receiver. I need to speak to you about Will,” that a cold certainty took hold of him.

How Bedelia had learned of the plan was unimportant. Hannibal wasn’t going to simply await for judgement obediently from anyone within the Community.

Fair consideration had been given to Will’s suggestion, of sparing the lives of those responsible for Mischa’s death. Will knew him too well. Every detail of their deaths would be etched forever in his memory palace, to be revisited whenever he opened that door. If there were any aspect that failed to live up to his exacting standards, he would look back on those memories with disappointment, rather than pleasure.

In light of current circumstances, however, any death at all would be preferable to leaving them alive and well.

Bedelia had the Community on a lockdown. The streets were empty when Hannibal made his way into the Senior Centre. Bicycles and toys left abandoned. Homes being searched one by one, the security team in their austere uniforms marching through the front doors. Will was missing, then. 

There was a variety of reasonable excuses Hannibal could imagine for his absence, first and foremost, Abigail’s imminent Release. It was the most likely explanation for why he’d chosen to leave without coming for Hannibal, or attempting to call him. As clever as Will was, he was still in many ways a child. In his panic, it likely hadn’t even occurred to him.

Hannibal refused to even consider any other possibility, despite the insidious doubt curling up at the back of his mind.

No one was supposed to be coming or going, but neither was anyone inclined to try to stop the Receiver of Memories. Except for the Overseer, there was no higher authority, and it was debatable which of them was more powerful. So when Hannibal requested to see Alana, he’d been shown to her at once.

“Receiver,” Alana greeted, rising out of her chair with a confused smile. “What can I do for you?”

“I was curious about a Release you performed,” Hannibal told her.

“Of course--can I call up the recording for you?” Alana tapped a few buttons on her keyboard, bringing her screen to life. “Or did you have a more specific question?”

“Mischa,” Hannibal said, and when Alana blanched at the name, clarified, “Number Twenty-Three of birth year one hundred and seventy-four.”

Alana’s smile froze on her face. “Forgive me, Receiver, but I’ve been instructed not to share the footage of that Release.” Her hand twitched towards the phone. “I can call the Overseer, and see if she’d be willing to allow it.”

Hannibal got to the phone first, sliding it out of her reach. “I have no desire to see it.” He’d watched it play out in his mind already, unable to stop his imagination from filling in all the details. Mischa, the only one in the room who understood what Release meant. The only one who knew how permanent and irreversible.

“Did you question, for even one moment, why you were Releasing one so young?” Hannibal asked. He wanted any word from her to stay his hand. “She hadn’t even reached adulthood.”

“It was unusual, yes,” Alana said, lips pursed in thought, but then she shrugged. “But judgement had been passed, it wasn’t my place to question it.”

Put like that, Hannibal’s path was laid out clear and unobstructed before him. He rose and came to stand beside her, and though she was uneasy with his proximity, she didn’t move. Crouching down so they were at eye level with one another, he murmured, “In the coming days, I want you to recall this moment. Remember what you just told me, when I return for you and you ask me why. Then you’ll have your answer.”

Alana sat wide-eyed, mouth parted as if she’d meant to reply and the words died on her lips. Fear rose hot and sweet on air between them. Even if she didn’t consciously understand his promise, a deep, animal part of her knew it for the threat it was.

The Overseer’s office was in chaos. Banks of computers in the first floor, devoted to the Observers, flicked between all the hundreds of different cameras around the Community. The Observers bent over the screens, searching for any hint of Will on them. No one stopped Hannibal’s progress--likely no one even noticed him.

Bedelia’s office door was open, Jack’s voice, booming from within. “--think we both know where he got the injection,” he shouted. “And now Phyllis is Lost!”

Under different circumstances, Hannibal might have spared a moment’s shame, for having thought Will might use the syringe for any other purpose than to Release Phyllis. How Will must be suffering with the burden of having a hand in her death.

“What would you have me do, Jack?” Bedelia’s soothing tone, stroking down the ruffled feathers. “With Will gone, Hannibal is the only one to hold the memories--you know what happened when Twenty-Three was Released.”

“Jack, Bedelia.” Hannibal closed the door behind himself after he slipped inside.

Bedelia took a step backwards, and another, until she was backed against her desk. She might not have the same level of awareness as the Receiver, but the Overseer always knew more than her citizens about the threats they’d faced. A vague, blurred watercolour of suffering, hunger, and death. Enough to place a higher value on life than the others.

At the very least, he could enjoy taking his pound of flesh from her, if no one else.

Jack came towards him, naturally bigger, but with no knowledge how to use that bulk to his advantage. Hannibal caught him with a punch to the gut and as he went down. A blow to the back of the head ensured he would be incapacitated for a few moments. Bedelia took a cautious side-step in the direction of the door, and Hannibal countered.

“Call off the hunt for Will.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Bedelia said. She lifted her chin and fixed him with her icy blue gaze. “He must be stopped before he crosses the boundary. Perhaps if you could lead us to him and convince him to come back--”

“I’m curious what makes you think I’d be inclined to help you. And if I were to return him to you, would you send him to live in another neighbourhood? Perhaps with Mischa,” Hannibal mused, watching the way her eyes narrowed. “You’d have to start all over again and wait that much longer to Release me. The next possible Receiver is an Eight. She wouldn’t be mature enough to take the memories for another five years, at least.”

Bedelia’s jaw clenched and she crossed her arms defensively over her chest. “You gave us no choice where Twenty-Three was concerned. You’ve willfully, repeatedly broken the rules, and we could not punish you.”

“So you chose to punish a child instead.” From the moment Freddie had told him the truth, he’d been unable to banish the image of Mischa’s terror, raw and frantic. Had she thought he would come for her, or had she resigned herself to her fate? Did she die blaming him, or still innocently trusting he’d save her?

“There is still time to fix this,” Bedelia said, with an immutable confidence, born from decades of living her life by the rules, day in and out.

“There is no fixing this. There’s no way of winding back time, no reassembling the tea cup.” Hannibal prowled towards her. “You can’t bring back Mischa, and I won’t let you have Will.”

“Threatening me won’t stop the search for him,” Bedelia said.

Jack stumbled to his feet, staggered but still moving towards the door, perhaps to call for help. Hannibal got him around the neck in a chokehold--not enough to kill, but to incapacitate. “I don’t intend to threaten you, Bedelia,” he tossed over his shoulder. 

They struggled, Jack with all his considerable strength, Hannibal with his knowledge of a variety of hand-to-hand fighting. Jack stood upright and lifted Hannibal from the ground, nearly throwing him off. Hannibal shifted his hold and dug into the carotid artery with all his strength. Within seconds, the hands scrabbling at Hannibal’s hold grew weaker, and Jack fell to his knees.

Hannibal let him drop after he’d gone limp, and turned back to Bedelia. He brushed his hair back out of his face and straightened his sleeves. “Now we’ll be uninterrupted.”

“You will not intimidate me,” Bedelia told him coolly. “Everything I’ve done is for the my citizens. Part of leading is making painful decisions. If the Community did not have me to protect them from threats like the one you pose, we would not have lasted half so long as we have.” 

“You can rest your weary head now, Bedelia,” Hannibal said. “I have one final task for you as Overseer: I want you to carry a message to the rest of the Community, and I only wish I had more time with you to compose it.”

Hannibal shot out a hand and grabbed her around the jaw. His fingers curled into her cheek until he could feel the flesh giving under his nails in deep gouges, forcing her mouth open. She made a noise of protest, soft and high-pitched, but she didn’t struggle much and her eyes didn’t leave his. There was a steely courage that Hannibal might have appreciated in her, under different circumstances.

The tongue was a slippery, tricky, sinewy grouping of muscles. With the blade brought from his kitchen, it was surprisingly easy to slice through, but it didn’t come out evenly at all. Bedelia groaned, what might have been a cry if not for his fist stopping up the noise. Blood poured slick down Hannibal’s arm as he pulled her tongue free altogether.

Bedelia brought up her hands between them to push him away, hands twisting in his shirt, nails clawing at his throat. She coughed up a mouthful of blood that spilled over her chin and down the front of her. And still, the terror Hannibal had anticipated was not present in her eyes. 

Until that moment, Hannibal hadn’t known precisely what it was he was hoping to feel. Some relief from the oppressive weight of grief and self-loathing, catharsis at the sight of her suffering, or metamorphosis into the thing he’d always meant to be. 

If he could not transform himself, he would transform Bedelia, then. She was choking on her own blood and he would help her along, fist shoved down her throat with her tongue still held tightly in hand. _There,_ the clutching hands, the sucking, desperate gasps cut off, and the panic rising with each thundering beat of her heart grown weaker. 

At last her eyes went dead, glazed over and unfocused. How little time and effort it had taken to render her venomous bite harmless, never again to lead her innocent sheep astray. Though he was hesitant to say it was an experience without merit, he couldn’t deny it left him with a querulous, hollow feeling. There was no time to savour his revenge.

What would Will say, if he were here now at Hannibal’s side? Would he have been an active participant, would he have stood silently by or have attempted to intervene? 

Jack stirred again and pulled himself up on the edge of the desk. Hannibal stepped back from Bedelia. Her body slumped lifelessly across the desktop. “Wh--” Jack pulled at the collar of his shirt and coughed, and tried again. “What have you done with her?” he wheezed.

“Very soon, you’ll understand,” Hannibal said. He sat the chair upright, and all it took was one rough shove to knock Jack back into the seat. There was rope in his bag, and now Hannibal used it to lash Jack to the chair. “The drones won’t find Will. He’ll cross the Boundary of Memory and I will follow him, and Bedelia has done her job so well, you have no clue what that will mean to the Community. Any punishment I might dream up for you would pale in comparison. But, I want you to know this:”

Jack, who knew nothing of the emotion, watched him with loathing in his eyes, tracking his movements when Hannibal tied a gag in place around the back of his neck. “When judgement is passed upon you,” Hannibal said, patting him roughly on the cheek, “Justice will don a black cap.”

Bedelia’s body he arranged in her chair, head angled just so that to a casual observer she might still appear alive--if not for the torn, gaping corners of her mouth and the blood dampening her golden hair and pristine white dress. In her hand, laid palm out over the desktop, Hannibal placed an apple, and over her head he draped a small black square of fabric. It would be a striking image, especially once colour returned to the Community.

“Ostentatious,” Will would called it, but the upward quirk of his lips would betray him. 

The facsimile of him which occupied Hannibal’s mind palace was charming, though this Will lacked the authenticity of the original. He surveyed Hannibal’s handiwork, unimpressed, and glanced up at him with an arched brow as if to ask, _Well? Was it all that you dreamed it would be?_

That, he supposed, remained to be seen.

Hannibal ducked out of his jacket and balled it up in the bottom of his bag. The wrists of his shirtsleeves were stained in blood, as was his right hand, but with no one to see the colour of it, he trusted that to slip beneath their notice. 

With a few carefully worded lies and a charismatic smile, he allayed the worries of Bedelia’s secretary, and the Observers. They were eager to believe anyone who told them all was well, too unused to any conflict or deviation from the normal routine. _It was all a mistake, the Overseer was deliberating how to proceed from here and consulting with Jack on how to discipline those responsible._

It would only be a short while before someone found Jack and Bedelia, but it was enough time to give Will a chance, and to allow Hannibal to slip away. 

* 

Time passed very strangely for Will. The first half-hour flew by, not nearly enough to travel any substantial difference from the Community. He paddled until his shoulders and arms were aching, but made himself continue on. It was 9:30 when he heard the first plane pass over, but it was far in the distance, in the direction of the path to the north. Brian had lied for him, then; Will felt such a grateful rush of affection and relief, he was dizzy with it. 

Then, it seemed, time began to drag along. Minutes stretching into whole hours and days. The stream opened up into a river, slowing considerably for awhile, so that even with his oar, they didn’t move any more quickly than they would have on foot. Around them, the eerie stillness of the forest closed in. Will imagined there were eyes watching him, and he held Abigail tighter, disquieted.

The sun was already on it’s descent when the stream narrowed again, and picked up speed. Will let it carry them along for a time, but then it turned choppy and water began to slop over the top of the kayak. In the distance he could hear voices. They were young, probably no more than Eights, out on a nature walk, and they were most assuredly from another neighbourhood. 

Will dragged the kayak from the stream and onto the shore. It was likely no one would find it here, too far from his own neighbourhood and upstream from this new one, but he still took it a good way from the stream and piled leaves up around it.

Following an old, dusty, overgrown path from the stream, he found his way to this neighbourhood’s rec shed. There was a whole row of shiny, well-maintained bicycles stored next to the shed, including the teacher’s, which was the right size for him. He stood there, frozen, debating giving himself away in exchange for a bicycle. In the end, he waited too long, and the choice was made for him.

The students came dashing out of the forest, boisterous and laughing, but at the sight of him they came to an abrupt stop. They fell silent, and in the hush came a murmur of wonder, rippling through them. _The Receiver, what do we do, is he supposed to be here?_

A teacher pushed through the tangle of children and stared at Will in awe. Though Will had never met them before, and there was no crossover between neighbourhoods, the Receiver’s face, like the Overseer’s, was known throughout the Community.

They knew he was here now, anyway. “I need to borrow your bicycle,” Will said.

“Of course, Receiver,” the man said. “Should I call the Overseer.”

“No!” Will said, too quickly. The teacher looked him over, taking in Abigail and the bag on his back. “There’s no need to disturb the Overseer,” Will said, going for a calming tone. “I will see to it your bicycle is returned. I apologise for disrupting your day.”

The man was wary, but he nodded his head in deference. “Your apology is accepted, Receiver.”

Will turned the bike further into the forest, knowing it was only a matter of time until the teacher told someone. With the hour growing later, the sun would soon set, and he would have to find a place for them to rest for the night. Abigail had woken twice more, and each time he'd sent her into a deep sleep. She'd need some time free of the carrier, and another, real meal before they slept.

By the time it was close to dinner, the forest had opened up into huge, wide fields of corn and grain, as far as the eye could see. The road was paved and cut neatly through the crops, stretching forever into the distance. Will hated being so exposed, but there was nothing else to do at this point. He rode until he heard the drone of a helicopter, then hurried off the bike, dragging it into the field of corn with him.

Abigail fussed, eyes scrunched up, tired and restless and miserable. Will held her hand in his and put his fingers to her face, and thought of that stream in the Smokies Hannibal shared with him. The gentle rolling burble of the creek and the rhythmic sounds of nature.

It was growing dark, and Will was tempted to stop for the night. Stay here, sheltered by the corn, let himself and Abigail rest. His legs hurt like they never had before in his life, and his back was stiff, and there was a pounding ache in his temples, down his neck, and into his shoulders. But Hannibal's voice whispered to him that staying would mean their death. He hadn't gone nearly far enough, and even the shelter of the corn would mean nothing to the people who pursued him. They would begin searching every field, row by row if necessary.

Travelling at night made better sense, anyway. Even if they did send drones and pilots out, visibility was much lower. There wouldn't be any other traffic, and no harvesters out after it got dark. And it gave him the advantage of time and distance they wouldn't be expecting from him.

So, weary and tired, Will dragged his bicycle back onto the path and climbed on. After a while, his body almost forgot about the pain, or perhaps got used to it—locking it away for a later point in time like he did in his memory palace with all the thoughts he didn't wish to dwell upon. The monotony was almost worse than the pain. It was as if he made no progress at all, with the ever unchanging landscape blurring on all sides as he sped down the road.

Twice more helicopters came close enough that he felt the need to hide, and he hunkered down in the corn. Will didn't have the food supplies, but he'd taken some of Abigail's formula from the fridge, his mother's untouched breakfast, and what he could scrounge from the kitchen. Since all their meals were prepared and delivered to them by the food service workers, there wasn't much to be had in the dwelling. Just snack foods for between meals and after recreation time: apples, bananas, and a few energy bars. Will rationed them out to himself, allowing one piece every five hours, and he saved the bananas for when Abigail's formula ran out.

It was hardly enough to be going on, but even in a vehicle Hannibal had estimated the trip taking well over a day to O’Tenkay. On bike, Will figured he was looking at least at five days. That was wishful thinking, especially given outside the Community the flat landscape would give way to hills and mountains which would take much more effort to traverse. He didn't know when, or even if, there would be food he could scrounge or harvest along the way, so he had to conserve what he had.

Thankfully there were watering sources for the crops, and Will stopped at regular intervals to drink greedily straight from the spout that poured into the irrigation streams. It was the only thing that kept him going that first night, when his vision was starting to go splotchy white around the edges and his head was spinning with exhaustion. It got him through to the first fingers of predawn light licking over the fields and turning everything from shades of blue to bright gold. Will might have found it beautiful, under different circumstances.

Will made them a little base camp in the rows of corn. He used some of the fallen leaves and carefully wove together the stalks to block out the sky above them entirely. Not only would even the keenest drone pilot overlook them now, but he wouldn't have to worry about the sun burning them. Then he used the clothing in his bag, tied end to end, to wrap around the base of the corn stalks to fashion a sort of playpen to keep Abigail from wandering far.

They ate—a protein bar for Will and formula with half a mashed up banana for Abigail—and Will sang to Abigail while she explored their space, shredding the stalks of the corn gleefully, tugging at the knots he'd made before coming to curl up next to him. 

Though the ground was hard and uneven with clumps of dried dirt and fallen leaves, sleep came almost immediately. So quickly, in fact, that Will jolted awake in confusion a few times, terrified that he would find Abigail had wandered away from him, or the shadow of the Overseer looming above them. Each time, however, he found they were safe and together, and had to quiet his racing heart until he could fall asleep again.

The second night was easier. Will started out at dusk, somewhat refreshed. Abigail had woken a few times during the day. Half-waking he’d fed her formula and left her to her own devices. Between her babbling and the way she climbed all over him, patting at his face and pulling on his hands, it had been difficult to sleep deeply. 

They'd woken an hour earlier and he'd played with Abigail, letting her explore all the different new sensations in texture, sight, and scent—the fresh earth and unripened corn, and the slippery smooth silk from the husk which made her shriek in delight. Will had to quiet her then, tucking her into the carrier and putting her to sleep with more memories, this time of the soothing patter of a summer rainstorm.

The fields rolled by as endlessly as the night before, but now Will knew what to expect. As he pedalled he hummed under his breath, from the bits and pieces of songs he'd learned at Hannibal's home—from jazz and rock, to opera and classical, to pop and bluegrass, a wild, eclectic collection that always made him think of the memories of freedom Hannibal had shared with him. It was an effervescent buzz under his skin, singing in his veins, like it might tear him apart, and it was entirely worth it. Everything that he'd done, everything that had led him to this point and would carry him and Abigail over the Border, was worth it.

That next morning, after he'd fashioned the same little shelter for them, and cuddled close to Abigail while the now hourly drones and helicopters buzzed passed, Will began to feel hopeful, for the first time. They were doing just fine. No doubt Bedelia had expected to have them back within an hour, and now it was over forty-eight hours later. They were stretched thin, having never faced a search on this scale before, desperately sending drones in all directions. None of their searches had narrowed in on his location, or else they'd be searching this area non-stop.

Most importantly, however, was the horizon. It had begun to slope upward, and in the great distance, Will could see rolling hills, and the end of the golden rows of crops. Before the next morning, he would have reached the first of the Community’s borders. Beyond that was still miles of foothills before he reached the pass in the mountains, but it was enough.

This thought carried Will into a happy sleep, only for him to be woken again a few short hours later. Adrenaline coursed through his body, and it took a minute for him to understand what had woken him. None of his nightmares about losing Abigail or being discovered, and they were both still safe. He strained his ears, but there was no sound of drone or helicopter.

A strange ringing sounded out, coming from a great distance away and rippling through the field-- _through Will_ \--and he was doubled over with an onslaught of memories. All the thousands of things Hannibal hadn't yet shared with him, flooding his mind all at once.

First and foremost in his mind was all the pain Bedelia had promised and Hannibal had saved him from. After the horror of learning what Release meant, the physical pain seemed mundane. It hurt like nothing he’d ever experienced, all those sensations rushing over him at once. But they came and were gone again, and they were nothing in the face of what followed.

The wars mankind had fought, and the atrocities they’d held up like _accomplishments_. 

Will trudged in a line with his fellow soldiers through blood-soaked, body-strewn fields. Heard the bones crushed under wagon wheels, felt his skin tear when an arrow pierced his flesh, and kept fighting. They packed the wound with herbs and wrapped it, but infection had already set in, and they took his arm. When that, too, began to fester, he knew it would only be a matter of time. He thought of stumbling over the bodies, their glassy, fixed stares aimed at the sky, and envied them terribly.

She was told the battlefield was no place for a woman, and she wasn’t sure she could rightly disagree, but she had no choice in the matter. The things she’d seen would not allow her to rest at night, knowing she could be of use there. Holding the hand of a dying man, or applying the tourniquet to save another, or keeping a list in her diary the names and burial sites of each of the dead, to be passed on to his family. More than once, she came close to meeting her maker, caught in the crossfire, but though she survived the war, she knew it would still take her life in the end, haunting her until she was driven mad by it. The walls of the sanitarium would fade into the battlefield at night, and she would relive every trauma over and over until death claimed her at last.

He huddled close to the other men listening to the pop of gunfire over the trenches, exhaustion like he’d never known, hunger gnawing in his belly, trading gallows humour with his opponents, a mere twenty yards away. Just when he thought certain death would come in the form of bullet or mines, the sickness tore through their ranks, and it showed less mercy than the Germans. Loaded on a train with sickest among them, left to die in rows of cots, the nurses moving like angels among the fluttering curtains dividing the room. Worse than war, more single-minded and ruthless, this sickness, claiming everything in its path.

The entire family dragged into the streets at dinner time, her father made to kneel like an animal at the feet of the soldiers. They killed him like that, without explanation, and loaded the rest of them in the truck. Her neighbours and schoolmates. Shivering in fear and cold in their cramped quarters. Her two youngest siblings were taken to the gas chamber first, no use to the soldiers, and her mother went soon after from the cold and sickness, but she had long lost her will to live. She never saw her brother after that first night, until the day they were both shoved into that narrow chamber, and he stood across the room from her. He’d said it would never come to this, when the neighbours were being taken. They were too wealthy and well-respected. She spent her last moments filled with a venomous hatred for him above all else.

For too long, Will sat motionless, trembling, as the memories washed over him. Abby had begun to sob, whether in fear over his reaction, or because she, too, was experiencing the memories to some extent. He did not know if the others would see them as vividly as he, or if it was more of a general awareness, but for Abigail’s sake, he hoped it was the latter.

There were other memories, of course. Other atrocities, and pleasures he’d not yet experienced or even imagined, and everything in between, but Will couldn’t spare them any attention now. He staggered to his feet, dragging a hand over his tear-stained face, and held Abigail close as he climbed on his bike. 

Though it was daylight still, Will had a feeling no one in the Community would be emotionally equipped to handle these memories. They would be unable to keep up the search for him now, and he couldn’t afford to wait until they’d recovered. Besides, he couldn’t have slept now, no matter how exhausted. Because if those memories had been released, it meant Hannibal was out now. He’d crossed the Boundary of Memory and Will had to find him.

Even as he thought it, Will’s mind raced with other possibilities, putting together likely scenarios whether he wanted it to or not. Of Bedelia sending security to bring him in. Hannibal might have been a match for two or three of them, but they had drugs on their side. They could have rendered him unconscious and bound him, and then he would have been unable to free himself. 

Bedelia would have him questioned, to discover their plan of escape, and Hannibal would have never given up Will. But for Bedelia to have him Released...perhaps he had killed some of them in his attempt. Perhaps Hannibal had taken his own life, rather than allowing himself to be taken.

Will shoved those thoughts viciously aside, and clung to an optimism he didn’t really feel. That fuelled him throughout the afternoon and into the early evening, and that was when the search for him took on a new fervor. They needed their only Receiver before he released his memories as well--someone to take back all that knowledge for them, to make everything safe and simple again. 

Sirens tore through the growing dusk and it wasn’t long before he could hear the rumble of vehicles on the road. It was too risky. He was maybe a couple miles from the place where the corn ended. Would they search beyond that point? 

Their progress was slow. Will had to pick his way through the field, careful to avoid stumbling. Every time there was a flash of headlights or the murmur of a drone, he crouched low to the ground and held still, sending his most peaceful, calming thoughts to Abigail to keep her silent. Nearly an hour later, with night fully fallen, he reached that last row.

After days of travelling through the crops, it was surreal to find the end. Some part of him had expected them to stretch on forever. Now he stood before a great, empty swath of swaying grass, no higher than his knees, at least a mile wide, before the hills rose up. Still there was not a great deal of coverage there, only the random, scattered copses of trees.

If he waited, they would only have more time to fortify the border, and he knew this. In daylight he would be far easier to spot from a great distance. Now they would have to be very lucky indeed to pick him out. Will braced himself and took a great breath. He cradled Abigail’s head in his hand, and began to run as hard and fast as he could.

Riding on the bicycle so long had left his muscles weak and rubbery. They kept almost giving out beneath him, not working quite right, sending him stumbling to the ground more than once. He caught himself and pushed up and on. 

He could hear the drones buzzing back and forth, and had no way of knowing if they saw him. The barrier was invisible to his naked eye, but Will knew the moment he’d passed it. There was the feel of the air packed in dense around him, stretching and giving, between one step and the next.

Will kept running until he simply couldn’t move any longer, up the crest of the first hill and down again into the valley, and came to a rest panting under a lone oak tree. All the thoughts and fears he’d spent the day burying came bubbling to the surface, and he was wracked with sobs and hysterical laughter. Giddy from his narrow escape, and the feel of Abigail in his arms, still sorting through all the new memories and caught up in the dichotomy of the worst humanity had to offer, and the best.

Woven through it all, was the ache of loss in his chest. The knowledge that he would never see Hannibal again.

“I’ll keep you safe,” Will whispered, pressing teary kisses into Abigail’s hair while she munched on an overripe banana. “I’ll do whatever it takes.” And he meant it, too, with a new understanding of that man he’d seen in the forest. Even if he had to hunt animals to feed her. Even if he had to kill anyone who stood in their way. Whatever it took, they would survive.

*

Will had known that the most difficult part of his journey remained ahead of him, but knowing did not help to fully prepare him. There were memories of bravery and perseverance that pushed him onward, but they were not his own. As tightly as he clung to them, he could not fight the dread that swelled up in him from time to time, almost paralysing in intensity.

Outside the barrier it was chilly, even as overheated as Will was from physical exertion. He pulled the extra fabric of the carrier up over Abigail’s head and tied his jacket around his waist to keep her warm. There was only one protein bar left, which he was saving for when Abigail’s bananas ran out, so he had to content himself with an apple.

After he’d eaten and rested, he forced himself to his feet again. Once he’d crossed the barrier, the drones and helicopters had come roaring to the spot. None had followed him past it yet. They were no doubt waiting for permission, and Will couldn’t waste anymore time.

It was slow going, with every step uncertain. Will never knew if his legs would continue to support his weight. His breath steamed on the night air, uneven puffs that burned in his lungs and down his dry throat. When he came upon a stream, he drank greedily for several moments before filling up his bottle. He recalled Hannibal’s warning of the potential lasting radiation in the outside world, but he had no way of knowing, and he needed the water.

When the scattered trees grew dense, and Will crossed into a forest, he began to weep again in relief. There was no path, and the roots tripped him up constantly, but it provided them with much needed coverage from the growing predawn light.

So far, he’d been following the direction of east on his compass, trusting it to lead him from the Community, but now he had no real idea of how to proceed. The mountains were to the east, but with such a vast, at times treacherous landscape ahead, he needed to find the pass. Until he had some point of reference, he could only continue eastward, and hope for a sign.

A sign was, quite literally, what he found. The ground was frosty under foot after dawn broke, the detritus of the forest floor crackling underfoot. He’d begun to follow what seemed to be a path of cracked stone. Though uneven and overgrown with grass, it was far easier to traverse than the forest floor. He’d fashioned himself a walking stick from a fallen branch, and when it hit the ground with a loud, metallic bang, Will nudged aside the rotting leaves to see what he’d struck.

The sign was bright green in spots where the paint remained, and silver beneath. Will knelt down and picked it up for a better look. _Ashville 13_ , it read, _Cherokee 65_. He hadn’t gone more than twenty or so miles off track from their original course, then, by pure luck. 

The weather was mild, from Will’s memories of late winter bleeding into spring. Perhaps it was the location, or perhaps it was a result of the bombs used during the war. For whatever reason, he was able to keep Abigail warm by bundling her close to his body heat throughout the night. When they stopped to rest for the first day, he had fashioned a shelter for them from the clothing in his pack, but the second day he was lucky to find an ancient building with three walls still standing and half a roof. 

Making a fire was trickier than it had seemed in his memories and he would have given up if it weren’t for Abigail’s cries and the mucous crusted around her nose. He got it going after almost a half hour of struggles, and it almost went out on him a couple of times before he finally got it built up enough to generate any heat.

They’d gone through the last of their food supply, and Will slowed down his pace that evening trying to scrounge for food. There wasn’t much to be found in this area during mid-March. He found wild onions aplenty, and while he could choke them down, Abigail was having none of it. There was some asparagus coming up here and there, reed thin, but flavourful when he roasted them over the open fire, but still Abigail wouldn’t take the bitter taste.

Just when Will was growing desperate and truly afraid, ready to cry from frustration and cold, he stumbled upon the cranberry bushes. The fruit was frozen through, and more tart than sweet, but doubtless she was too hungry to put up any more protests, because after he’d thawed them by the fire, she ate all he’d picked.

With the sun coming up, the frost melted and along with the fire and the layers of clothing, Will was finally warm enough to not worry about Abigail suffering of hypothermia when they settled in to sleep. They cuddled up and he sang to her as was now their bedtime routine, watching her eyes flutter shut and listening to her breath evening out.

Abigail did not sleep restfully anymore, no matter how many memories he shared with her. Whether it was the cold, the new memories from Hannibal, or sickness creeping in, it worried Will to no end. In turn he didn’t sleep well, either, too aware of her body tucked close to his own and the cold seeping in all around them.

The journey was taking longer than he knew it should, but on the third day out of the Community, he passed a faded blue and red sign proclaiming highway 41 alongside another pointing them to Cherokee. It was a few scant miles later, near midnight, that he first spotted the towers that demarcated the Boundary of Memory.

Twice over the past few days, vehicles had passed on the road, and there were regular drone passes. Because of it, he hadn’t been able to go out of the forest during his travels. The thick brush provided enough of a hiding spot to wait for them to pass. Last night, he’d thought himself caught when one of the drones snuck up on him, and he didn’t notice until it was only a few hundred yards away. It passed back and forth near his hiding space a few times, but nothing had come of it, at least so far. Still, Will retreated further away from the road, until he could only just make out it’s shape in the distance.

Once he passed the Boundary of Memory, there was no longer any impetus to catch him. His memories would get released back into the collective consciousness of the Community along with Hannibal’s. Already they must have been overwhelmed and confused. Perhaps there were citizens acting out, or experimenting with these new experiences. Had they stopped taking their medication already? If not, the addition of Will’s memories should be the final straw for many.

Security members were picked for their blind loyalty, and it was possible they’d continue to follow Bedelia longer than others. But once society began to descend into chaos, their attention would be split. They couldn’t focus all their energy on hunting Will when they needed to deal with citizens misbehaving all around.

Will spared a thought for his father then. If he had survived Hannibal, he would now be faced with a difficult task. Being asked the pass judgement on all the citizens who were no doubt breaking rules left and right. Possessing of the knowledge that told him this was unjust, juxtaposed with his belief that the rules of the Community were infallible. Would be be crippled by the guilt of all those he’d sent to death over the years? Or would he continue to pass judgement, conscience warring with duty?

Much like with the first barrier, there was no visible wall, just that same strange sensation of being displaced. Once he was through, all those memories Hannibal had given him began to fade. It was immediate and shocking, like something essential being yanked away from his insides. 

Will fell to his knees, gasping, until they were all gone and his head roared at the emptiness. It was not that he no longer remembered them, he realised, when he tentatively wandered down the stream in his mind, only that they were faint impressions. Anxious and fretful, he probed gently at his _own_ most treasured memories, and sagged in relief to find them untouched. The Community could have all those others, but to lose all the colour and scent and breath and life of his time with Hannibal was unimaginable.

It was quickly apparent that this barrier had been about more than holding in the memories. Past the first barrier, all the flora was free to overrun the ruins and remains of pre-war America, but still there had been no fauna. No deer or small critters such as squirrels or racoons, no birds or insects, no fish that Will might have caught to keep them fed.

Here, Will was immediately aware of birdsong in the trees. There was a grouping of grey and dull red birds on the branches nearby, hopping back and forth from limb to limb, one taking flight right in his path. Will could only stare for a moment, entranced by that flash of iridescent blue exposed with open wings and the orange of its beak. Abigail squealed in delight, reaching out to try to grab after it.

As they continued on, he heard all manner of new sounds. The scuttle of little feet through the fallen leaves and shrieking cry that had his heart pounding in fear until he saw the fox that had produced it. And so all around them the world came to life with the sight and sound of the local wildlife.

At lunch time they finished the rest of the cranberries he’d harvested before they’d begun their journey this evening. He had nothing to eat himself, and the gnawing in his stomach had turned into a sharp, stabbing pain. When morning broke at last he’d spent most of the night making slow progress up the beginning of the mountainside. It was steep in some spots, but he’d found an area where it levelled out a bit for their camp. 

There was a natural embankment in a dried out riverbed and the tangled root and earth overhung, providing a shelter from the elements. By piling up logs around the front and side, and packing dirt and leaves on the outside, and lining the inside with clothing, it was actually cosy and warm inside, if a bit claustrophobic. Abigail was asleep so Will bundled her in his jacket and left her there, closed off from any wandering animals.

He didn’t have to go far along the path the river had cut out to find a trickling creek full of small, darting fish. His first few attempts were not successful. With nothing but the laces of his shoes to use as a line and a tree branch for a hook, none of the fish would bite. 

Throughout his travels he’d been collecting any detritus he passed that might prove useful. Finally he was able to scoop up a few of them, by chasing them into an ancient, rusted out bucket and quickly lifting it from the water. Making a fire was easier here. There hadn’t been as much rainfall and the wood was dry and brittle. Abigail played with some stones he’d gathered to place around the fire, clacking them together to make different sounds. 

Filleting the trout with the sharp edge of a rock left him with a sloppy mess, but the roasted meat was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted, and it was soft enough for Abigail to chew and swallow.

As they were eating, a rustling in the brush made Will freeze. All he had to protect them was a stick, and he knew there were bears, wolves, and other dangerous animals in the mountains here. So far he’d been lucky, perhaps because of the time of year, only seeing smaller animals, and once a boar from a distance that paid him not attention as he’d hurried past.

What came out of the forest, however, was a dog. Fawn coloured with short hair and a long, fluffy tail wagging behind as it approached Will. It looked, to Will’s reckoning, as nervous and uncertain of him as he was of it, but the scent of their food had drawn its attention. Will sat still, angling himself between Abigail and the dog, barely daring to breathe. 

The dog was led by its nose, sniffing first at the rock Will had used to fillet, licking up the guts. Will would never know what possessed him to hold out his hand, the last bit of his fish on his palm, for the dog’s questing nose. It licked it up hungrily and nosed at him for more.

“Sorry,” Will murmured, “all I’ve got.” He watched the animal uncertainly, but after sniffing them both over, it whined and paced away from them before lying down a few yards away, just outside the glow of the fire.

Wary of more scavengers, Will walked the remains of their dinner far away from the campfire to dispose of. The dog was seemingly asleep when he returned, but Will still closed back up the opening of his little dwelling before lying down, just in case.

With the long nights, he’d begun to travel in partial daylight hours to avoid any nocturnal creatures and to more easily pick his path in the forest. As the road curved up into the mountain, it narrowed and had been so overrun he would have lost track of it if not for the fact that it followed the sharp dropoff of the mountainside. He wasn’t going to risk taking a wrong step with Abigail strapped to him.

In the morning light, the dog was still there, and it perked up its head when Will climbed out of his warren. It made no move at him, just watching while he packed up, but on his way out it trotted after him, a few dozen paces back. All day long it kept its distance, but when Will caught more fish for dinner, it came sniffing. 

Will set aside a portion and the dog actually curled up next to them to eat. Cautiously, Will reached out to touch its coat and when the dog didn’t snap, petted it gently. It was soft, though the short fur was matted with dirt in places, and overall seemed to be in good shape. When it curled turned onto its side, Will could see it was a female and her belly was distended from hunger.

When she was still there in the morning again, Will sighed and said, “I guess I better think of something to call you, if you’re going to come with us.” 

Most of his knowledge of names came from the same ones used again and again within the Community, recycled when a Senior was Released and then assigned to a new child. But from the memories Hannibal had given him of pets, their names were often nonsensical or whimsical. Throughout the day Will tried out several, both from the Community and the memories, but she didn’t seem much like a Molly or Jillian or Sarah, nor a Princess, Buddy, or Ginger. 

As they passed yet another sign for Cherokee, this time only fifteen miles away, Will stopped them for lunch. If he pushed hard tonight, they could make it by midday tomorrow. He had to stop often the higher they climbed, between the cold temperature, steep path, and thin air, and even with the fish to supplement his foraging for food, he was growing weaker with each day.

All this time, he’d held Cherokee as some sort of goal in his mind, as if he made it to Cherokee, they would be safe, but as he pressed onward, he had to finally face the fact that he had no idea if there would be anyone there, or if their path would become any easier. Going down the mountain might be even more treacherous for them.

Abigail’s chest crackled when she breathed, and when Will tried to sleep with her curled up against him that night, it was all he could hear. Along with the cough she’d developed, Will didn’t know how much longer they could go on. She slept most of the time, but when she was awake she was fractious and impossible to quiet. Her cries had drawn more than one wild animal, from other dogs, to wolves and coyotes, but their new dog companion was equal to the task of scaring off any potential danger.

Will sat huddled in the shallow cave he’d found for their shelter and cried, face in hands. Exhaustion and helplessness combined, over his inability to help Abigail, despite all his promises to care for her. Having no idea where they were going or if anyone would even be willing or able to take them in, protect them in Bedelia sent anyone after them.

“Hannibal would know what to do,” Will told Abigail, who was wailing and miserable. He was boiling water over the fire, steeped with wild mountain mint he’d found by pure luck. Going through all the recipes of tea Hannibal had served him over their time together, he once was overtaken by a swell of rage and loss that they’d been separated. Hannibal’s pack would have foods and herbs to fortify them all and clear Abigail’s lungs.

They had bad luck with fish that night, and the next morning. Will gave Abigail the only cranberries he found, but the snow started falling mid-morning and showed no signs of letting up. The bright berries were the only food he could readily spot on their walk. His only real hope was that with her small stomach, she would fill up quickly.

Will’s feet went numb after they’d been walking an hour. The shoes they were given in the Community were never meant to withstand winter temperatures, let alone snow. They were soaked through, as were his socks, then frozen cold and hard. He’d dressed himself in layer upon layer, with Abigail underneath, only her face peaking out from the moist warmth he’d created there. 

But his own extremities were so cold and dry that his fingers were bright red and the skin had begun to crack. He shoved them up his sleeves and tied a long-sleeved shirt over his head and around his face to protect it from the bitter wind that came in off the exposed mountain-side.

When they reached Cherokee, Will’s fears were confirmed. An ancient stone sign welcomed them to the Cherokee Indian Reservation in North Carolina, but there was nothing as far as the eye could see, save the ruins of old buildings. 

While Will was busy making a camp and trying to light a fire with snow damp wood, the dog ran off, and Will almost had another breakdown. He hadn’t meant to get so attached, and hadn’t even realised how much he’d come to depend on her company until she was gone. 

“It’s okay. We’ll be okay,” Will told Abigail, and hated himself for lying to her. “We’ve gotten this far.”

He eventually managed a weak fire, though it didn’t give off a great amount of heat. He thawed the cranberries over the fire for Abigail, but she kept turning her head away. Will gave up after several attempts, arms falling to his side, body curved over hers. He was sorely tempted to eat them himself.

A bark caught his attention, and then a high-pitched squeal, and then his dog was bounding back to him, a rabbit dangling in her mouth. She brought it to Will’s side and dropped it in the snow next to him with an expectant look and Will buried his face in her fur in thanks and relief.

There were puncture wounds from the dog’s teeth to use as a start for skinning the animal, and Will knew from memories that if he wasn’t careful, he could spoil the meat. The legs were the easiest to separate without fear of ruining them, so he put those over the fire first while he struggled with the rest. 

The fire didn’t do much good cooking the meat all the way through, but Will was so hungry he would have eaten it raw if necessary. He praised the dog and rubbed her belly when she rolled over to allow it, clearly pleased with herself and with him, and licked his face in her excitement.

“How about Carolina?” Will asked her, after they’d eaten. “That’s what this place used to be called. Named after a ruler or something. I think it’s a name for females. What do you think of it?”

Predictably, Carolina didn’t respond except to continue cleaning herself, but Will liked the sound of it.

The following day was the hardest of the journey by far. Now that he’d made it to Cherokee, he had no idea where to go from there. The road continued through Newfound Gap, and Will continued along it, for no better reason than it was there. But then, amazingly, another few miles down the road, there was another path intersecting it, this one not overgrown with plantlife, but fairly well-maintained.

Will’s excitement over discovering the road was short-lived. After following it for a while, he slipped and fell on a patch of ice and went down hard on his knee. He bit down hard enough on his lip to drawn blood to keep from screaming, but a sound still escaped his throat, raw and pained. For a minute, all he could feel was the white-hot stab of pain, and all he could see was a hazy red. 

When it passed, he sat panting, while Abigail wailed. Carolina licked cautiously at his cheek and Will patted her in reassurance. When he tried to stand, though, his knee wouldn’t take his weight.

It was sheer force of will that dragged them another quarter mile or so down the road until he reached the curving wall of the mountainside that extended over the ground a bit. The snow was thinner here, melted in patches, but the ground was soaked through. He looked down at Abigail’s head resting against his chest, her hair matted, her cheeks feverish red, eyes closed. She’d stopped fussing a short while ago and now was deeply asleep, and Will knew that wasn’t a good thing.

If they were going to die, Will would at least make sure Abigail was comfortable in the end. He didn’t even know if he could still give memories, or if she could receive them here outside the Boundary of Memory, but it was worth trying. He thought back on all the memories Hannibal had given him to the one with the most warmth. 

A sun-drenched beach, the sand toasty warm and the sun hot and dry on his skin. It was such a comforting memory, he almost wanted to keep it all to himself, but the same with the food, he could not. Will cupped Abigail’s cheek in his hand and sent it to her, along with all the love he felt towards her. 

Carolina tucked in close, half in his lap, and Will pushed at her weakly. “You have to go,” he told her. “You can take care of yourself.” Carolina wouldn’t be deterred, burrowing in more each time he tried to shove her away. “Stupid dog,” he muttered, but he was stupidly grateful for her presence.

The memory of the beach didn’t last long, and as it faded, Will was colder than ever before. Strangely, though, the longer he sat there huddled on the cold, wet ground, the less the cold seemed to touch him. All the exhaustion of the past week caught up with him, and he gave into the heavy, lethargic pull of it on his eyelids, drifting in and out of consciousness. 

Once, in his half-wakeful, half-sleeping state, he dreamt of his mother, never very physically affectionate in life, laying a kiss on his forehead. There was a glow about her, skin a rich, chestnut warm brown with a pink flush in her cheeks and light in her eyes, and she thanked him for Releasing her. 

There were other dreams that were so real he thought he was actually back home, until he blinked open his eyes to the unending field of white, swirling snow. Dreams of what it was like before he’d become the Receiver. Dinner with his family unit and playing games with his friends, and his biggest worry in life was Freddie making snide comments. No thoughts of death or loss or sadness or pain.

Upon reflection, Will preferred it this way, even if it meant his own death. Anything other than living that hollow existence. Anything other than letting them stick a needle in Abigail’s scalp and throw her away in a box down the incinerator chute.

He thought he heard music, once, and someone calling his name. When he opened his eyes, Hannibal was there, crouching before him, and his hand was warm on Will’s cheek. 

“I’m not sorry,” Will told him, though his mouth didn’t want to move to form the words and it came out slurred. “But I wish you could have come with us.”

“So do I,” Hannibal said.

Will’s body was lifted, and he felt at once leaden and weightless, floating in the air and sinking deeper and deeper into the cold, dark depths, until he wasn't cold at all anymore, actually. It was quite warm and comforting, reminding him of memories of a loving embrace. Will's last thought was that it wasn’t such a horrible thing, not as he'd feared. He finally understood why they called it Release.

Over the whistling of the wind, he heard Hannibal’s voice, soft in his ear, saying, “I’m here now." But perhaps it was only an echo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. If you read the novel, you might have seen this coming, ha! Sorry guys *runs and hides*


	10. Chapter 10

Hannibal spent several days scouring the various routes through the Smokies. It was unlikely that Will had travelled the northern most route, to Johnson City, both the harshest pass, and well-travelled thanks to the hunters and trappers in the area. The president’s aid had promised to keep an eye out and let him know if there was any word from the pass.

The central route, which led to New Olamico, was the best maintained. As all trade to the Community went through New Olamico, it was regularly travelled, and led right up to the Boundary of Memory. There was no sign of Will; the Cherokee had indicated that normal communication with the Overseer’s office had been disrupted and the route was being monitored as a result.

That left the Newfound Gap from Cherokee to Gatlin Forge. It was the least maintained of the paths because of it’s location, but it was also the lowest pass of the three. The truck he’d borrowed in Johnson City was able to traverse the broken roads to the southeast of the Gap, but couldn’t climb the mountainside and he was forced to waste precious hours driving through the Olamico Pass to approach the Gap from Gatlin Forge. 

Driving through the shambles of Ashville, Hannibal could see why Will might have favoured this route. Though not the most direct, it would have provided plenty of coverage if he’d been pursued, and opportunities for shelter when he rested.

Hannibal’s guide was a sturdy, cheerful Cherokee woman called Nola. She provided him access to their land which now stretched, uninterrupted, from the former states of North Carolina to Oklahoma. She led him through Gatlin Forge up the winding path towards the old Cherokee territory. The area was not as populous as it once was, though there were scattered homes. 

Populous enough that the roads were maintained, but not so much that they couldn’t easily spot the evidence of Will’s travels through the area. Nola found the campsite, and confirmed that it had to be his, from the mangled rabbit corpse and the poorly built fire. The people of Cherokee and O’Tenkay had grown adept at living off the land, and their survival skills were far superior to Will’s. Theirs was a bizarre existence. A largely agrarian society, built on what technology they’d managed to salvage and maintain after the war. Individuals with knowledge of pre-war skills were highly valued.

There was a great deal of precipitation in this area of the mountains which made the drive treacherous, and an appreciable drop in temperature. Though Hannibal was unbothered by the cold weather, he could not help the racing of his heart, thudding loud and sickly hot in his chest, as he thought of Will and Abigail facing the elements alone and unprepared.

They found Will at last in the perpetual blue gloom of winter nights in the mountains. The rock walls formed a narrow pass, frozen water tracing the path of the waterfalls that rushed in the summertime. Will had tucked them beneath the jutting natural shelter formed there, hunched over with Abigail held against his chest and a wild dog in his lap. His skin was so exceedingly pale, Hannibal feared the worst.

Fingers fumbling to tug off his gloves, something so foreign that it took him a moment to place it as panic sticking in his throat. As often as he experienced emotion through the eyes of another, it was always different when he felt it for the first time himself. Hannibal sought out Will’s pulse, and then Abigail’s. 

Astonishingly enough, the infant’s was stronger than Will’s own, though perhaps Hannibal shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course Will would have sacrificed his own food and warmth for Abigail’s sake. Hannibal wanted to hate her for it, but found he could not, instead stroking a hand across her hair and imparting his own memory of warmth to hold her over.

“Will,” he called, with hands on his cheeks, guiding his face upward from his boneless slump.

Will blinked open heavy-lidded eyes, staring at Hannibal in blank confusion for a long moment as if he could not recall who he was, let alone who Hannibal was. And then he smiled dreamily and his eyes fell closed again. “‘M not sorry. Wish you’d’ve come with us.”

The words were barely intelligible, but their meaning reached into his chest and seized his heart with a helpless, pained wave of affection for this creature. Willing to freeze to death, alone and afraid in the wilderness rather than content himself, as Hannibal had done for over a decade, with a comfortable lie.

“So do I,” Hannibal said fervently, and pulled Will into his embrace. His cheek was frozen, shockingly cold against Hannibal’s own. Hannibal stood awkwardly, careful of Abigail between them as he lifted Will into his arms. “But I’m here now.”

Nola watched them with concern and Hannibal nodded towards the dog who was standing at attention, tail wagging. “We should bring the beast as well, or I fear he’ll never forgive me.”

“You did not give me the impression of a man so easily cowed,” Nola said, lips curved wryly, but she used a bit of dried meat from the cab to lure the dog into the bed of her truck.

Inside the cab, Hannibal turned the heat on high and stripped Will and Abigail free of their wet clothing, wrapped them in the pile of blankets from the backseat, and tucked them in between Nola and himself.

The drive back to Gatlin Forge took a good hour. Nola took them straight to the physician’s office, kept in his cabin, and Hannibal could only stand out of the way while Doctor Woodall and his daughter Skye saw to their patients. Abigail was placed in a cradle by the fireplace with warmed towels, while the doctor listened to her heart. 

Hannibal laid his hands on her temple and shared with her a child’s first memories of love--being spun in wild circles by the arms in the back yard, dog nipping at the heels; riding on a ferris wheel at dusk, heat-sleepy and full of sugar, tucked between parents; bubble baths and gentle combing through of hair, tucked into bed with a story and a kiss. Abigail barely twitched when the doctor pierced her skin with the needle for the iv.

“You can help,” Skye told him, after she’d tucked Will into bed and checked on his vitals. She led Hannibal into the room where Will lay prone, sheets drawn up to his chin. 

“Go on and strip down and lie down under the covers with him.” Skye prodded at his back until Hannibal obeyed, when it became clear she didn’t intend to leave. “I guess you didn’t really have to learn this particular survival skill,” she mused. “What with your perfect climate control. That would certainly make things easier around here.”

Skye lifted the edge of the sheets. “Climb on in.”

Certainly he’d never had to share his body heat with another person for their survival, but Hannibal was well aware of the benefits. He drew Will closer, moving slowly and gently to twine their legs together and link his arms around Will’s waist. Oh so careful of the iv and curling tubes. Will’s flesh was firm and radiated cold outward, chilling Hannibal’s own skin. Though Will had always been smaller and slighter than him, but he felt impossibly thin now, his ribs protruding beneath Hannibal’s palms.

But he was here, solid against Hannibal’s body, chest expanding with each breath growing deeper. It stirred the hair fallen over Hannibal’s forehead in steady, regular exhalations. Hannibal held tighter and imagined his body heat seeping into Will, the lines between their physical forms blurring. He hadn’t failed, this time.

Hannibal woke to a column of light spilling across the bed. Woodall poking his head in. “After all he went through to get her out of there, I thought your boy might like to have Abigail at his side,” he explained, carting in her cradle and iv, and placing her at their bedside.

Hannibal was groggy, the fog of sleep pulling him down even as he lifted his head to glance over at her. There was a bright red fever in her cheeks, but her chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths. She looked as though she was sleeping soundly. “She’ll be alright?”

“She’ll be fine,” Woodall said. He leaned over Will’s monitor and hung a new iv bag. “You’ve run yourself ragged these past few days, you need your rest, too.”

Sleep came quickly and when he woke again, it was because of Will squirming against him. Hannibal blinked away the sticky gum in his eyes and sat up, alert. Will had tossed aside the blanket and sat up, his iv pulled taut from the movement. “What--”

Hannibal laid a hand over his to calm him. “Will.” He pitched his voice low and soothing, and stroked his other hand along the nape of Will’s neck. “Will, you’re fine. I’m here.”

“Where are we?” Will asked, looking wildly around the room. “Where’s Abigail?”

“She’s here.” Hannibal half climbed across Will to pull her cradle closer. “We’re in Gatlin Forge. It’s just south of O’Tenkay. It’s safe. You’re safe.”

Will froze, not even breathing for a moment before he let out one long exhale. He swiped a hand over his face and sagged against Hannibal’s side. “I thought--” He glanced over at Abigail and reached out tentatively, almost fearfully, not quite touching, just brushing his fingers against the fold of her blanket.

“I thought I was hallucinating you,” Will murmured.

“You told me you wouldn’t let anything separate us,” Hannibal said, “that includes you.” He applied the faintest pressure to Will’s chest, urging him to lie down again, and with a brief moment’s resistance, he gave in. “I’m just holding you to your promise.”

Will spared him a tired smile, gone in a flash. Hannibal rose and Will reached for him with grasping hands. “I’ll be back in a minute; you rest. You need nourishment.”

Skye was awake, sipping tea with a book by the fireplace. Will’s dog was asleep on the rug at her feet. “The men from Bowling Green were knocking down the door after you went to sleep last night,” she commented.

Hannibal took the milk from the fridge to warm it. “I suppose it would be too much to hope that we could rest now that we’re free.”

“I think,” Skye drawled, “it’s a mistake to think that you’re ever free.” Hannibal spared her a wry smile on his way back into the bedroom.

Propped up on pillows, Will seized the milk from Hannibal’s hand and began to gulp it down. Hannibal eased it from his grip. “Slowly, or you’ll make yourself sick if you drink too much at once.”

“Who were you talking to?” Will asked.

“Skye is the daughter of the doctor who’s been caring for us. I’m afraid we won’t be able to stay here as long as I’d like. I had hoped to give you an opportunity to recover fully.”

Will sat up straighter. “Why? Has Bedelia sent someone after us?”

“Bedelia is dead,” Hannibal said, flicking his hand across the covers.

“My father?” Will wouldn’t look in his direction after he asked the question, his hands gripping the sheets white-knuckled.

“Jack is alive, as is Alana,” Hannibal left the _for now_ to hang on the air between them. “There is no one pursuing us, so far as I know.”

“Then why can’t we stay?” Will asked, words dripping with weariness.

Hannibal drew him into his arms. “We have valuable knowledge of how the Community is run, of the technology they use, pre-war history. The leader of O’Tenkay has requested our presence in Bowling Green in an advisory position.”

Will sighed. “Advisory,” he echoed. “Like how we were meant to advise the Elders back home?”

“I think you’ll find the conditions in O’Tenkay far more agreeable.” Hannibal stroked back the dirty rat’s nest of curls on Will’s brow and laid a kiss there. “There’s an apartment there for us to live in with room for Abigail. And your dog.” 

That got Will to brighten right up. Hannibal told himself he wasn’t jealous that it was a dog that had Will’s eyes lighting up, some of his old enthusiasm back. “Carolina is here?”

“Do you think I’d leave her?” Hannibal scoffed. “You know there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

After a pause, Will nuzzled into Hannibal’s chest. “You left my father alive.”

“That was not altogether altruistic of me. It was as much for myself as it was for you,” Hannibal said. “What you said was true.”

Will reached out to twine their fingers together. “I only wanted you to be happy, Hannibal. It’s not enough to have you here, physically, knowing your thoughts are elsewhere. I just wanted us together, and to be happy.”

There were no promises here, in this land of uncertainty. They’d traded that all away the moment they’d stepped outside the Community. Hannibal brushed his lips over Will’s crown of curls and murmured, “And here we are, and I will do my best to give it to you.”

 

Epilogue

 

When Will woke, the bed was already empty and Hannibal’s place cold. Carolina was stretched out across the foot of the bed, not even stirring when Will sat up with a start. A glance at the clock confirmed what the light had told him, inching ever closer to the bed, that it was already past eight. With a groan, he hefted himself up and lurched into the bathroom. He’d only have time for a quick shower.

“You were supposed to wake me up at seven!” he grumbled, on his way down the stairs, and heard the answering, high-pitched giggle.

“I did send Abigail after you,” Hannibal said, wearing a placid smile when Will found him in the kitchen at the island, Abigail on a stool across from him. “She said you looked too peaceful to wake, and who was I to argue?”

Abigail nodded gravely. “You looked beautiful, Daddy,” she said.

There was nothing, really, that Will could say to that, so he looped an arm around Abigail’s neck and pulled her close to peck a kiss on the crown of her head. “Let’s just hope Chiyoh and Kade are as easily swayed by four year old logic as you and I.”

“You won’t be late,” Hannibal said with calm assurance. He scooped crispy pan-fried potatoes from his skillet onto three waiting plates already piled high with eggs, sausage, and grilled peppers. “And breakfast is--” 

“Is the most important meal of the day, blah blah.” Will made a face and Abigail copied it before dissolving into laughter. Hannibal heaved a sigh with an air of wounded dignity, but Will saw the smile tugging at his lips. He went around the counter to poke Hannibal in the side and went up on his toes for a quick kiss.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” Hannibal assured him. He snaked his arm around Will’s waist, holding him close for a longer kiss. One hand drifted lower to cup Will’s ass and give a squeeze and Will squirmed away.

Will ignored the downright lascivious twinkle in Hannibal’s eyes. “I’m not letting you make me any later.”

“It’s fine,” Hannibal said loftily. “I have a meeting with Anthony this morning anyway.”

Will didn’t say what he’d like to have said, with tiny ears present. Hannibal knew how it would get under his skin. It wasn’t that Will doubted Hannibal’s fidelity, but anyone with eyes could see that Anthony wanted Hannibal for himself. “Give him my best,” Will said. There was no way Hannibal could mistake his murderous tone.

After breakfast Will bundled Abigail in her jacket. The weather was just starting to change and take on a crisp autumn chill. Yesterday was warm enough for her to wear shorts, but today the temperature had plummeted firmly into coat territory. 

Even after living in O’Tenkay over three and half years, Will wasn’t used to the vibrancy of colours in the fall leaves. He didn’t think he ever would. But just as it was foreign to him, it was commonplace to Abigail. Will would be eternally thankful that she could take such things for granted.

Most mornings the two of them went to his office in the LoMar District, but this morning his meeting with President Kade took them to the Old College District. Chiyoh took one look at Abigail and pulled Will aside with a raised brow. “Hannibal couldn’t take her for one day?”

“He could,” Will agreed. “He often does. I didn’t ask him. Abigail will be fine here.”

Chiyoh’s lips twitched in displeasure, but she didn’t say anything else on the matter. “The Community has sent a representative. Clearly they have some concerns over sheer number of immigrants coming into New Olamico. If it continues they simply won’t have the work force necessary to maintain infrastructure.”

Will nodded silently. All of this was old news to him. Though it wasn’t directly related to the work he did, Will kept appraised of all the goings on pertaining to the Community. At first it had been a slow trickle of immigrants, two or four at a time, with months between. Along with them came the tale of civil unrest and disobedience--whole neighbourhoods no longer taking their medications.

In the months follow Will and Hannibal’s departure, there had been a mad scramble to find a new Receiver of Memories, and while they had found a candidate, the transfer of memories had failed. No one knew if it was because of her young age or simply because the method of transfer from the collective conscious to an individual had been lost over the intervening years. Regardless of the reason, the citizens were forced to cope with the new memories, and it wasn’t pretty.

Within a year and a half, the number of immigrants had become a problem for the leaders of O’Tenkay and the Cherokee. While some of the citizens were prized for their knowledge of medicine, science, or technology, others were of little to no use outside the safety and tranquility of the Community. Neither, however, did either nation wish to see citizens making their way towards Nueva Florida.

President Kade rose from behind her desk to shake his hand in greeting. “Mister Graham. I trust you know Chief Ross.” Will nodded in greeting to her. 

They liked their family names in O’Tenkay--while the Cherokee took no issue with their single names, the citizens of O’Tenkay didn’t seem to know what to do with it, floundering awkwardly until a solution had been devised and a genealogist had been called in to dig up a name for them. 

With no information from the Community (and given that the family units there weren’t related by blood, and therefore useless as a tool to determine ancestry), the search had relied on DNA. Hannibal’s family line had been impossible to trace, but an eventual connection had been made for Will, which had been adopted by Hannibal and Abigail.

“Madame President, Chief Ross. I hope you don’t mind my daughter’s presence?” Abigail was perfectly behaved, silent and still, peeking out from around Will’s pant leg.

“Of course not,” Chief Ross said. “It is a welcome sight, a father taking such an interest in his daughter’s upbringing.”

Kade smiled tightly, neither perturbed by Abigail, nor charmed by her. She swept her hand in the direction of a carpeted area to the side of the room, where there was a leather couch and coffee table. Will set Abigail up with a couple of her toys and the notebook to practice her letters.

“You know what this trade deal would mean to us,” Kade said, getting straight to business, when Will took a seat across from her. Chiyoh handed Will a tablet with all the figures laid out and a handy chart that Will didn’t need, before disappearing into the outer office.

“It would end our reliance on The Dakota Territory,” Will said.

“Yes, and pave the way to gain better access to European trade routes,” Chief Ross interjected.

“But if they don’t have the workforce to harvest the crops, they’re going to rot in the fields and we won’t see any of it,” Kade said.

Will narrowed his eyes. “You’re not considering turning back the immigrants.” He’d worked hard to find homes and work for all the citizens who had fled the Community. The idea that there would be people forced to return to and live in the Community turned his stomach.

“We barely have the resources to go around for our own people--” Kade began, while Ross held up his hands and said, “No one is saying that--”

They were interrupted by Chiyoh knocking on the door as she entered. “The Overseer has arrived.”

Will had thought he was ready for this moment, having steeled himself, but it was still a blow to the gut, knocking all the wind from him, when his father walked into the room. While he’d been expecting to see Jack, it was clear the same could not be said for Jack expecting Will. His whole demeanour changed upon seeing Will, the jocular smile freezing, eyes going hard. But he needed this deal to work out as badly as they did.

The negotiations were tense. Jack didn’t want his people immigrating and he didn’t want to let their crops go. In fact, it seemed as though the knowledge he’d gained since they’d last spoken hadn’t changed his mind about much at all. Jack wanted to keep the Community the same as it ever had been, before.

Of course, that was no longer a possibility. Citizens had been assigned to positions based on their natural intelligence, and many of the people that the Community relied for survival were, if not gone already, desperate to escape. Security had clamped down quite a bit, but it was clear that unless they were allowed to leave, or things changed dramatically, Jack and the Elders were looking at an uprising.

“The entire southeast quadrant has been abandoned,” Jack explained. “That’s one hundred thousand tons of corn, and twice as much soy, per section, left sitting there untended.”

Kade and Ross exchanged a look. A single section would feed whole cities for the entirety of winter. Will cleared his throat. “‘What if we were to provide labourers?” he said.

“You mean letting insiders in?” Jack’s voice indicated what he thought of the idea. “We have enough problems on our hands as it is.”

“Yes,” Will agreed. “I’ve met many of your problems. However, the southeast quadrant is remote enough that there need not be any contact between our people and yours.” He let the words do their magic, digging in under Jack’s skin as a reminder of Will’s abandonment and where his loyalties lie.

There was nothing Jack could do to deny them. Without their help, he wouldn’t be able to harvest enough feed his people, and in turn they received twenty percent of the yield. On the issue of immigration, however, Jack was as opposed to it as Kade. Ross had a lot of sway, but that only got them so far. 

When the first day of negotiations ended, everyone was on edge. Abigail was sensitive to the tension in the room, and as soon as the meetings were called to an end, she came running for Will, asking to be picked up. Will was aware of Jack watching them as he stood discussing something in an undertone with Kade.

“Okay?” Will asked.

Abigail rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “I want Hannibal,” she said.

“Well, good news, he’s going to pick us up and take us to dinner. And what would you say to a show tonight?”

“Is Anthony going to be there?” she asked, pulling a face. 

Will had to carefully school his features into a neutral expression. “It’s Madame Komeda who’s invited us this evening.” He placed Abigail down on her feet and let her slip her hand into his.

“Oh,” Abigail said, brightening. “In that case, yes!”

Halfway down the stairs, Jack caught up with them. “Is there something I can do for you, Overseer?” Will asked, when Jack called his name.

Jack actually looked taken aback at his tone. “You know, it’s like pulling teeth, getting any information from Chiyoh on you.” Will snorted. He knew first hand how stubborn and taciturn Chiyoh could be, and for the first time in their acquaintance, he was thankful for it. “I see you’ve got little forty-seven with you.”

Will’s hand tightened compulsively around Abigail’s. “Hey, why don’t you go sit by the fountain and wait for your dad?” Abigail was a very observant, sensitive child, and she glanced between Will and Jack before nodding her agreement and running off.

“Her name is Abigail,” Will spat at him, and enjoyed watching Jack’s flinch. “Which I suppose you’ve retired by now, but it’s not so hard getting information out here--I’ve heard there are people off their medication forming family units of their own. How long until you have new children conceived the old fashioned way?”

“It’s true,” Jack said. “There have been many new trials, since you left us, and we were left without Overseer or advisor.”

“Maybe if the Overseer had been inclined to listen to her advisors before they left, things would have ended differently.”

Will caught sight of Hannibal walking across the square towards Abigail, and Abigail’s pleased cry of “Daddy,” running to be caught by him.

Jack watched them for a moment, the tender way Hannibal held her on his hip, petting back her long silky hair full of tangles, and kissing her forehead. “You would have had her listen to him, who murdered her in cold blood? Or to the child who ran and left us in the mess we find ourselves in now?”

Hannibal seemed to know exactly what they were saying, though he was too far away to overhear, and the lines of his body screamed of the restraint it took from physically attacking Jack here and now. Yet he remained gentle with Abigail, speaking to her in low tones.

“I wasn’t too much of a child for you to make Receiver. You all knew that whoever became Receiver of Memory would suffer for your comfort, and you went along, offering up your own son. And now that you’ve been confronted with the truths you avoided for so long, you hold me accountable?” Will demanded.

Chiyoh had come down to speak with Hannibal, and now she stood with Abigail at the fountain while Hannibal approached. He rested a possessive hand at the base of Will’s spine, and stared Jack in the eye. “Is there a problem, Will?”

“Looks like you’ve got a pretty comfortable life here, yourselves,” Jack all but growled. “Do these people know what you’ve done?”

“I’d be careful talking about cold-blooded murder around here,” Will said. “You’ll find they have some different ideas about what constitutes as cold-blooded, and Releasing innocent infants ranks right up there.”

Jack exhaled harshly, gathering his temper under his control. It was, objectively, fascinating to watch in a man Will had only ever known as imperturbable. “Some very unfortunate things took place in the Community, I’m not going to argue that point, nor am I looking to place blame, which I could, speaking of the Release of your mother. But the point is, we could use an advisor now. Someone to help lead us back onto the correct path.”

“If you think that you’re going to talk me around to coming back there, you’re sorely mistaken,” Will said. “And I suggest you reconsider, if you think maintaining the status quo is the best way to serve your citizens, or you’re going to have a lot worse than civil unrest on your hands.”

“You can pretend otherwise, but we both know how it pains you to see your people in need,” Jack said.

Will’s jaw twitched at the insinuation that Jack still knew him him--had ever really known him. Hannibal’s hand grazed upward and applied the lightest pressure in the direction of Chiyoh and Abigail. A suggestion and a request, and some of the tension in his shoulders lessened. 

“I’m sorry, our daughter is waiting on us. I’ll see you tomorrow morning--I have several ideas on how to help _my people_ , and unlike in the Community, I have the ear of the leaders here.” WIth that, he turned and strode towards Abigail.

Chiyoh jerked her chin towards Hannibal and Jack, exchanging words. “Nothing good is going to come of that,” she observed.

The idea that this might all end bloody for Jack had occurred to Will on more than one occasion as of late. Where it might have once caused him distress, these days he lost no sleep over the idea of Hannibal exacting his revenge. He wasn’t so naive as not to see Hannibal’s hand in it, shaping his thoughts over the past few years, but he had neither minded, nor resisted. It took a particular brand of strength to survive and thrive in the post-war landscape, and Hannibal possessed it in spades.

“Nothing good for Jack, maybe,” Will agreed, “But Hannibal wouldn’t compromise the deal.”

Which wasn’t entirely true, and Chiyoh probably knew it. She was quite canny with a particular interest in understanding what made people tick. But she also knew that Hannibal wouldn’t compromise _Will_ , and that meant the success of the deal and O’Tenkay, as well.

Hannibal rejoined them with a truly pleased smile and a lingering kiss on Will’s lips before he bent to sweep Abigail into his arms. He was so indulgent of her, carrying her everywhere, when really she should have been walking for herself. “Are we ready, my lamb?” he asked of her.

“Father said we’re going with Madame Komeda,” Abigail said, almost hesitantly.

“That’s right, to dinner and the ballet.”

Abigail beamed. “Madame Komeda always brings me presents. Do you think she’ll have gotten me that birdcage?”

“I suppose you’ll have to ask her over dinner,” Hannibal said. His smile gave it away, though, and Abigail knew it.

Will scowled at Hannibal over her head as they walked towards the car. “She spoils her rotten.” He ignored the pointed, sidelong look from Hannibal, brow arched as if to say _And that is any different from you and I how?_

Dinner was lovely as always, at the French restaurant downtown, and Madame Komeda had indeed brought Abigail her mechanical bird in its cage, both gilt golden. On top of which she proclaimed that Abigail wasn’t appropriately dressed for the show and insisted on buying her a new dress before they went to the ballet. Will honestly couldn’t say if it was propriety that kept her from insisting on a more suitable outfit for Will as well, or if she simply knew him well enough not to bother trying.

Will couldn’t keep up with the conversation, his focus divided by thoughts of his father and the Community. He spent most of the ballet twisting and tearing the program into shreds until Hannibal took his hand and stroked his thumb lightly back and forth across the pulse on Will’s wrist. It was a pleasant distraction and a promise of one far more pleasurable, later.

Afterwards the crowd milled around, making small talk. Though Will didn’t share Hannibal’s enjoyment for all the complex social workings of maintaining his position of power in O’Tenkay, he understood the necessity of it, and appreciated the effort Hannibal put into it. Tonight, however, he only wanted to escape. Normally there were plenty of people eager to bend the ear of Councillor Graham, but with Abigail was sleeping in his arms, Madame Komeda served as a formidable buffer, both fierce and charming at once in turning them away.

By the time they arrived home, it was well past Abigail’s bedtime, and yet she still charmed Hannibal into reading her two extra stories with that guileless smile and her soft, “Pleeeeease Daddy?”

“Sucker,” Will said, when Hannibal finally came downstairs, but of course then it was his turn to go in and sing for her. Why she preferred his voice to Hannibal’s, who could actually carry a tune, he’d never know.

Hannibal was reading in bed when Will escaped the wily grasp of their daughter, five songs later. She was sleeping soundly, at any rate. Will went into the closet to change out of his suit. “You know,” he called, “you can’t kill Jack here. As much as Kade can’t stand him, I don’t think it’d go over very well.”

“No more worrying about Jack tonight,” Hannibal said, from much closer than Will expected. He turned to find Hannibal in the doorway of the walk-in, completely nude. Will sagged gratefully under the touch of Hannibal’s hands on his shoulders, digging into the muscles.

“You going to distract me?” he asked with a cheeky smile.

Hannibal drew him near, face tucked into the curve of Will’s neck. He inhaled deeply, breath moist on Will’s skin on the exhale, and parted his mouth to suck gently at his pulse. Will let out his own shaky breath, hands coming up to cling to Hannibal’s shoulders.

“Go on then,” he said.

Hannibal answered with a sharp nip at his throat and another at his earlobe and Will’s knees went weak. Hannibal knew all the spots to make his pulse race in excitement and was well on his way to hitting them all. He made quick work of the Will’s remaining clothing. His button down shirt tossed carelessly aside, his boxers left to pool on the floor at his feet, all spoke to Hannibal's own eagerness. The pressure of his fingertips on Will’s ribcage was feather-light, sending electricity skittering down his spine. 

“What would you like me to do?” Hannibal asked. He drew one hand up Will’s neck to tangle in his hair and Will swayed closer, angling his face upwards for a slow kiss.

“I want you to fuck me,” Will said, and grunted when Hannibal got a hold on his ass and hefted him up. Will obligingly locked his legs around Hannibal’s hips, the hard line of Hannibal’s cock pressed against his ass. His muscles clenched in anticipation. “Until I can’t think about anything but your cock splitting me open.”

Hannibal laid him out on the bed and followed him down, braced on his hands as he drew them together in a slow, lithe roll of his body against Will’s. He sank down to nuzzle at the crease of Will’s thigh, nosing inward, and licked up the line of Will’s hardening cock.

Will reached down and grabbed a fistful of hair. “No foreplay, I just want you to fuck me.”

Hannibal glanced up, eyes dark, mouth hovering over the head of his cock. “As you wish.” 

He slicked his fingers with lube and thrust two into Will’s ass. Will hissed at the burn, feet slipping on the sheets and braced himself. Hannibal shifted, angled his fingers and oh, there it was, the slick easy glide. He arched into it and Hannibal pushed deeper. 

As often as they did this, Will would never get used to the stretch, when Hannibal finally straightened, slicked his cock with lube, and lined up. That first long slide that made Will’s eyes roll back in his head and tore a gravel-rough groan from his throat. 

“Fuck!” Will reached above him to grab the headboard, sweaty palms sliding on smooth cherry until he got a firm grip and rocked down to meet Hannibal’s thrusts.

Hannibal set up a quick pace, folding Will in half lick into his mouth. Will bit down on his lip and turned his head to the side for Hannibal to suck at his throat instead. There was a language to their kisses that he didn't care to speak right now. He wanted nothing but sensation. “Roll me over,” he panted. “I want you deeper.”

Hannibal pulled out just long enough for Will to roll onto his belly with his knees up under him, then he was shoving in again. “Yes,” Will moaned. “Like that, Hannibal, please.” His thrusts were brutal, just what Will needed to take him out of his head when he was so deep in it. He clung to the headboard and just took everything Hannibal had to give him.

“Like this?” Hannibal asked, skin slapping on skin. He reached around to take Will in hand, grip tight, jerking him sloppily. His teeth worried the flesh of Will’s neck. “Is this what you want?”

Will grunted his approval, and when Hannibal drove back in, harder still, cried out, “Yes, yes, Hannibal, _fuck_.” Will went tense, teetering on the edge for a sweet moment, Hannibal hammering into him, thumbing at the vulnerable head of his cock, all just past the threshold of _too much_. When his orgasm hit him it was with all the force and finesse of a freight train. Pulse after pulse of his cock, striping the bed sheets with his release.

Hannibal growled, and Will responded to the animal sound of it, hair standing on end. His cock jerked, trying to offer up more. Hannibal got him flat on his stomach, a hand on his hip and another on his shoulder, impaling Will on his cock until he too was coming with a rough sound. His fingers dug in deep, hard enough to really hurt. Will hissed and twisted, half in pleasure, half in protest. There would be marks for days, hidden under his clothing, for him to feel every time he shifted in his seat. Hannibal loosened his hold, fingers stroking soft over the indentations he’d made, lips brushing across the top of Will's spine.

Will lay there, luxuriating in the feel of it, as the bed shifted under Hannibal’s weight and he climbed off. With eyes closed, he drifted through the peaceful stream of his mind palace until Hannibal returned, pressing a light kiss to his shoulder blade. “Better?”

“Mmmm.” Will rolled onto his back. “Much better, thank you.” He stretched cautiously to feel out the twinges and aches left behind by Hannibal’s manhandling. 

“It’s my pleasure.” Hannibal quirked him a smirk. “You know, you worry too much, my love.”

“I think I worry just the proper amount,” Will muttered. “I’d rather not have to go on the run again.”

“Do you need me to fuck you again?” Hannibal asked, fingers skating up and down his side, voice thick with self-satisfied humour. “Because if so I’ll need a few minutes.”

Will chuckled. He heaved himself upright, worn out, but not about to fall asleep with Hannibal’s cum drying between his cheeks. He dragged himself into the bathroom, calling out, “All I’m saying is you’ve gone to a lot of trouble to make our place here to throw it away now.”

“O’Tenkay is our home,” Hannibal said. “It’s Abigail’s home. I won’t let anyone take that from us.”

After rinsing himself clean and brushing his teeth, Will climbed back into bed, burrowing under the fresh sheets had laid down in his absence. A chill had found it’s way into to the home, and it was far too early in the season to turn on the heat. Things like that were carefully conserved, even among the upper class. “Let me take care of the immigration deal,” Will said, already half asleep. Hannibal ran cold, and Will practically radiated heat, so he snuggled closer, laying his head on Hannibal’s chest. “Then we can plan a trip to visit Jack.”

Hannibal hushed him, fingers laid in the familiar place on Will’s temple. They rarely shared memories in this manner any more--they spent far more time lost wandering one another's mind palaces, the doors flung open to be perused at their leisure. This memory was one with which Will was familiar--one he’d been present for--but from a different perspective. A few months ago, the three of them at the summer fair. Will remembered Abigail throwing a tantrum after missing her nap and having too much fried food and not getting the third toy she’d asked for. He remembered the smell of grease and manure, his feet sore and everyone wanting a piece of Hannibal’s time. He remembered just wanting to leave and be in the dark cool of their home.

In Hannibal’s memory, everything was golden. Will saw Abigail’s smile and how her hair gleamed in the sunlight. He remembered sitting by the pond watching Abigail steal bites of Will’s strawberry cake, and the tinkling sound of her laughter like music. Hannibal remembered how she felt in his arms, her weight, and sun-warm skin, and soft arms linked limp around his shoulders. And he remembered walking hand in hand with Will, the fierce pride and ownership, parading Will down the street for everyone to see.

What Will had remembered as a mundane and stressful, Hannibal remembered as the perfect day. Throughout it all Will basked in the feelings of love and contentment, and understood what it was Hannibal meant to show him with this memory. That he was happy here, and would remain so, regardless of what did or did not happen with Jack. 

“See?” Hannibal whispered, lips brushing his forehead. “Now rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so, so sorry for the long wait. As those of you on tumblr might know, life has not been treating me kind as of late. There was a medical emergency that has kept me distracted, along with other real life stuff, for most of this month. Which is a bummer because October/Halloween is my favourite time of year, and I'd hoped to get a lot of writing accomplished, including a creepy fun Halloween Hannigram fic :/ Anyway, thanks for sticking with me, I hope this has been as fun a ride for you as it was for me!


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